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ALEXANDER DUMAS’S WORKS 

Contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition; 

Arranged chronologically in the order in which they should be read. 


No. Title Pages 

1978 Ag6nor de Maul6on; or. The 

Half Brothers. (Sometimes 
called “The Head aud the 
Hand”) 433 

1979 The Brigand 

1981 The Horoscope 223 

/1 982 Ascanio 

2110 The Two Dianas 273 

2076 The Page of the Duke of Savoy.2.T4 

211.5 Marguerite de Valois 3:18 

. 9V.6 La Dame de Monsoreau; or, 

Chicot the Jester 337 

2117 The Forty-Five Guardsmen. ..366 

.55 The Three Musketeers . .460 

75 Twenty Years After 407 

2064 The Vicomte de Bragelonhe. . .488 

2065 Ten Years Later ; . . . .489 

2066 Louise de la Valliere 436 

2067 The Man in the Iron Mask 442 

2138 The Son of Porthos 

1983 The War of the Women 

2H1 The Black Tulip 199 

717 Beau Tancrede; or. The Mar- 
riage Verdict 315 

2113 The Chevalier d’Harmental; 

or. The Conspirators 254 

2114 The Regent’s Daughter 211 

2112 Olympe de ClSves 292 

2096 Madame de Mailly. Sequel to 

“ Ob'mpe de Cloves ” 315 

2118 Joseph Balsamo 407 

2119 Memoirs of a Physician 350 

2120 The Queen’s Necklace 283 

2121 Ange Pitou; or. Taking the 

Bastile; or. Six Years Later. 452 

2122 The Countess de Charny 330 

2123 Andr6e de Taverney 361 

2124 Chevalier de Maison Rouge... 270 

1985 Monsieur de Chauvelin’s Will. 

1986 The Woman with the Velvet 

^'^6CklQ>C0 • ♦ 

2126 The Companions of Jeliu 232 

2060 'I'he Aid-de-Camp of Napoleon. 

Sequel to “The Companions 

of Jehu ” 251 

■2125 The First Republic; or, The 

Whites and the Blues ". .303 

2061 Diana de Fargas. Sequel to 

“ The First Republic ; or, The 
Whites and the Blues ” 240 


No. Title Pages 

,.2127 The She-Wolves of Machecoul.294 
" 2026 The Last Vend6e. Sequel to 
“ The She-Wolves of Mache- 

coul ” 266 

-2128 The Corsican Brothers 

1058 Masaniello ; or. The Fisherman 

of Naples 

x676 Camille ' 

/262 The Count of Monte -Cristo. 
Part I. (Sometimes called 

“ Edmond Dantes ” ) 460 

' 262 The Count of Monte -Cristo. 

Part H 460 

1642 Monte -Cristo and His Wife. 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo 187 

1340 The Son of Monte-Cristo 187 

1938 The Fratricide. Sequel to 

“The Son of Monte-Cristo ”..184 
1645 The Countess of Monte-Cristo. 189 
2035 The Daughter of Monte-Cristo. 
Sequel to “The Countess of 

Monte-Cristo ” 176 

1931 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. 
Sequel to “ 'I’he Count of 
Monte-Cristo ”. 189 

1939 The Countess of Salisbury 190 

1990 Catherine Blum ; or, The For- 

©stors • • • • • • • 

2062 The Watchmaker 165 

2063 The Russian Gypsy 227 

2075 The Twin Lieutenants, and 

Blanche de Beaulieu 23? 

2039 The Mohicans of Paris 

2040 'I’he Suicides. Sequel to “ 'fhe 

Mohicans of Paris ” 

2041 Monsieur Sarranti. Sequel to 

“The Suicides” 

2042 Princess Regina. Sequel to 

“ Monsieur Sarranti ” 

2043 Salvator. Sequel to “Princess 

Regina ” 228 

2044 Conrad de Valgeneuse. Se- 

quel to “Salvator” 217 

2045 Rose-de-Noel. Sequel to “ Con- 

rad de Valgeneuse” 218 

2046 The Chief of Police. Sequel to 

“ Rose-de-Noel ” 205 

2047 Madame de Rozan. Sequel to 

“ The Chief of Police 


■e 


Sent, post-paid, on receipt of 10 cents per copy. 


% 


/ 

Monsieur De Chauvelin’s 



BY 



ALEXANDER DUMAS. 




TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 

MARY STUART SMITH. 

* 


Copyright, 1900, by Gkorge Monro's Sons. 


New York : 

GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS, PUBLISHERS. 

17 TO 27 Vandewatkr Street. 


THE BEST or ALL 






1840—1900 







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2 



MONSIEUR DE OHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


I. 

THE HOUSE OH VAUGIRARD STREET. 

Oh going from the Eiie Cherche-Midi to Notre-Dame- 
des-Champs, there is found, to the left, facing a fountain 
at the corner of the Eue Eegard and Vaugirard, a small 
house listed on the municipal registers of the city under the 
number 84. 

And now, before going further, a confession that I was 
hesitating to make. That house, where the sincerest 
friendship received me, almost immediately after my ar- 
rival from the country; that house, where I was treated 
like a brother for three years; that house, which I could 
have gone straight to with my eyes shut when, in times of 
jo}'’ or sorrow, 1 went there for the sympathy that was so 
surely found; well, in order to explain to my readers its 
topographical situation, I have just been obliged to have 
recourse to a plan of the city of Paris. 

Who would have made me believe such a thing twenty 
years ago? 

This is because, in the course of twenty years also, so 
many events, like an ever-rising tide, have stolen from the 
men of our generation the recollections of their youth; be- 
cause it is no longer with the memory that we must recol- 
lect — memory has its twilight in which past events are lost 
— but with the heart. 

Thus, when I lay aside my memory to take refuge in 
my heart, I find there again, as in the sacred tabernacle, 
all the secret sensations which have escaped, one by one, 
from my life, as, drop by drop, water filters through the 
fissures of a vase; in the heart there is no twilight becom- 
ing more and more misty, but a dawn becoming more and 


6 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAU^ELIN’S WILL. 


more brilliant. Memory tends to obscurity — that is to 
say, to nothingness; the heart tends to life — that is to say, 
to God. : 

There it is, though, that smalf hguse shut in by a gray 
wall, behind which it is half hid — for sale, I am told — soon 
to escape, alas! from the hospitable hands that used to 
open to me its doors. 

Let me tell you how I came to be introduced there. 
That leads us by a turn that I well know to the story that 
I am telling you; but never mind, follow me; we shall talk 
as we go along, and I’ll try to make the road seem less 
long than it is in reality. 

It was toward the end of 1826, I believe. You see, I 
stated it to you as twenty years ago, and lo! it has been 
twenty-two. I had just completed my twenty- third year, 
for my own part. 

While upon the subject of Jean Jacques Rousseau, I told 
you about my literary dreams. Already in 1826 they had 
become more ambitious. I was no longer busy over The 
Chase and Love,” which I had done in collaboration with 
Adolphe de Leuven; I was no longer composing ‘‘ Mar- 
riage and Burial ” with Vulplan and Lasagne, but it was 
‘‘ Christine ” that absorbed me solely. Beautiful dream! 
One resplendent, in fact, that, in my youthful hopes, was 
to open to me the garden of Hesperus, that garden with 
golden fruit for which Criticism acts the dragon. 

Meanwhile — poor Hercules that I was — Necessity had 
put a world upon my shoulders. A wicked goddess, that 
Necessity, who had not even, like Atlas, the pretext of 
resting an hour while crushing me. 

No, Necessity was crushing me — me and so many others 
— just as I crush an ant-hill. Why? Who knows? Be- 
cause I chanced to be imder her foot, and because the 
chilly goddess in the chimney-corner, her eyes being shut, 
did not see me. 

This world that she had placed on my shoulders was my 
clerkship. 

I earned one hundred and twenty-five francs a month; 
and here is what I had to do to earn one hundred and 
twenty-five francs a month. 

I went to my office about ten o’clock; I quitted it at 
five; but in summer I returned there at seven o’clock and 
left at ten. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 7 

Why that increase of work in summer, at that time when 
it would have been so pleasant to breathe the pure air of 
the country or the intoxicating atmosphere of the theaters? 

I am going to tell you how it was. The portfolio of the 
Duke of Orleans had to be attended to. 

That aid-de-camp of Dumouriez at Jemmapes and at 
Valmy, that exile of 1792, that college professor of Eeiche- 
nau, that traveler to Cape Horn, that American citizen, 
that prince who was the friend of Foy, Manuel, Laffitte. 
and Lafayette, that king of 1830, that refugee of 1848, was 
still called at that period ‘‘ the Duke of Orleans.’^ 

It was the happy time of his life. As I had my dream, 
he had his. My dream, kept to myself, was success; his 
dream, kept to himself, was the throne. 

My God! have mercy on the king! My God! grant 
the old man peace! My God! grant to the husband 
and father all that is left for him of conjugal and parental 
blessedness in the infinite treasures of your goodness. 

Alas! at Dieux I have seen that crowned father weep 
over the tomb of that son whom he had hoped would wear 
a crown. 

Is it not true, sire, that your lost crown did not cost you 
as many tears as your dead child? 

Let us go back to the Duke of Orleans and his portfolio. 
That portfolio was the day’s dispatches and the evening 
journals that he had to send to Neuilly. 

Then, the portfolio being sent by a courier on horse- 
back, the answer had to be waited for. 

It was the last comer to the office who was charged with 
this task, and as I was the last comer, it had fallen to my 
share. 

My comrade, Ernest Banet, was intrusted with the morn- 

Syg took by turns the Sunday’s portfolio. 

Then, one evening, in the space that intervened oetween 
the portfolio dispatched and the one that was to arrive, I 
was scribbling a few lines of Christine,” when my office 
door flew open, a fine head, covered with flaxen curls, ap- 
peared, and a voice, with slightly mocking accent, uttered 
in rather harsh tones these three monosyllables: 

Are you there?” 

‘‘ Yes, I responded, briskly; come in.” 

I had recognized Cordelier Delanoue, like myself, the 


8 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 

son of an old general of the republic; like myself, a poet. 
Why has he succeeded less well than myself in the career 
that we have traversed? I can not imagine. He certainly 
has as much mind as I have, and makes indisputably bet- 
ter verses than I. 

The caprice of chance. All is luck or ill-luck in this 
world; but only at the moment of death will it be ascer- 
tained which of us two, whether he or I, has had good or 
ill -fortune. 

But that visit of Cordelier Delanoue was a bit of good 
fortune. Like all the persons whom I have loved, I loved 
him then and I love him still ; only I love him more, and 
am sure that it is the same way with him. 

He came to ask me if I would go with him to the Athe- 
naeum to hear I do not know what lecture on I do not 
know what subject. 

The lecturer was Monsieur de Villenave. 

I knew Monsieur de Villenave only by name. I knew 
that he had made an esteemed translation of Ovid; that he 
had formerly been secretary for Monsieur de Malesherbes 
and tutor to Monsieur de Ohauvelin’s children. 

At that period, theater-going and amusements were rare 
things with me. All those theater and parlor doors that 
have since opened to the author of ‘‘Henri and 

“ Christine ’’ were closed to the humble clerk in charge 
of the Duke of Orleans’ evening portfolio. I accepted, 
begging Delanoue, however, to wait with me for the mail 
carrier’s arrival. 

Meanwhile, he read me an ode that he had just com- 
posed. It was a preparation for the lecture at the Athe- 
naeum. 

The courier returned. I was free, and we set out for the 
Rue de Valois. 

To tell you at what part of the Rue de Valois the Athe- 
naeum held its sessions would be impossible. I believe that 
this was the only time that I ever went there. I have 
never had much relish for those reunions, where a single 
individual talks and everybody else listens. The subject 
discussed must either be very interesting or new to the 
audience, and he who speaks must either be very eloquent 
or have fine descriptive powers for me to find this one- 
sided discourse at all attractive, where contradiction is un- 
conventional and criticism impolite. 


9 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK'S WILL. 

I have never been able to hear to the end either preacher 

P^ator, There is always a turn of the discourse upon 
which I get hung, and that causes me to draw a halt in my 
own thought while he goes on his way. Once stopped, I 
very naturally consider the thing from my own point of 
view, to myself; so that I make my speech or sermon in 
silence, while he makes his out loud. Both having reached 
the conclusion, we are often a hundred leagues apart from 
each other, although we have set out from the same point. 

It is the same case with theatrical performances. Unless 
I am present at a first representation of a play made for 
Arnal, Grassot or Ravel — that is to say, a work which is en- 
tirely outside of my habits of thought, and for the compo- 
sition of which I simply recognize my incapacity — I am the 
Avorst spectator in the world at the first presentation of a 
new play. If the play is imaginative, hardly have the char- 
acters been introduced before they are no longer the au- 
thor’s, but my own. Instead of the unknown, with whom 
I am to get acquainted in four acts, I introduce them into 
four acts of my own composition; I carry out my concep- 
tion of their characters, and utilize their originality; if the 
interval between the acts lasts only ten minutes, it is more 
than I require for the construction of a castle in the air, 
into which I conduct them, and it is with my dramatic cas- 
tle in the air, as it was with the lecture or sermon of Avhich 
I spoke just now. My secretly constructed castle is hardly 
ever the same as that of the author; therefore, as of my 
dream I have made a reality, reality becomes like a dream 
to me — a dream that I am up in arms to combat, saying: 
‘‘ But that is not the way. Monsieur Author,” “ You have 
not got it right. Mademoiselle Honorine,” ‘‘ You are going 
too fast or too slow,” ‘‘ You are turning to the left instead 
of to the right,” ‘‘ You say yes when you should say no,” 

Oh! oh! oh! but that is unbearable!” 

In the case of historical plays, it is much worse. Natu- 
rally my play is altogether built upon the title; and as it 
is of course constructed with all the feultiness of my style 
— ^that is to say, with an abundance of details, absolike 
rigidity of characters, and double, triple, quadruple in- 
trigue — ^it is very rarely that my play resembles the least 
in the world that which is being acted. This is what makes 
a veritable punishment for me of what furnishes others 
with amusement. 


10 MOKSIEUR PE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

^ly fellows have learned my peculiarity, so that now, if 
they invite me to the first presentation of their play to the 
public, they know what to expect. 

I did that evening to Monsieur de Villenave as I do to 
everybody. However, as he had finished three quarters of 
his lecture before I arrived, I began by looking at him in- 
stead of listening to him. 

He was then a tall old man, between sixty-four and sixty- 
five years of age, with fine locks of silvery white hair, a pale 
complexion, and lively black eyes; his dress had that sort 
of elegant negligence belonging to toilers who dress once 
or twice a week, that is all, and who, during the rest of 
the time, keep on old footed pantaloons, a loose old gown, 
and slipshod shoes in the dust of their studies. That Sun- 
day suit, with its shirt of many little plaits and ruffled 
bosom, with its well-ironed white cravat, shows the hand 
of wife or daughter — the housekeeper, in short, who has 
gotten it up so nicely. That well-scoured, well-brushed 
suit is a sort of protestation made by her against that hor- 
rid every-day clothing which shuns the whisk and dusting- 
brush with genuine dread. 

Monsieur de Villenave had on a blue coat with gilt but- 
tons, black pantaloons, white waistcoat, and a white cravat. 
What a strange machine is thought — an intellectual wheel- 
work that goes on and stops in spite of us, because it is the 
hand of God that winds it up; a clock that, according to 
its whim, strikes the hours of the past and occasionally 
those of the future. 

What was it that arrested my thoughts the moment I set 
eyes upon Monsieur de Villenave? Was it, as I said just 
now, some turn of his discourse? No; it was an incident 
.of his life. 

I had once upon a time read, I know not where, a pam- 
phlet of Monsieur de Villenave, published in 1793, entitled 

Account of a Journey Made by One Hundred and Thirty- 
two Men of Nantes.’’ 

It was to this epis^e of Monsieur de Villnave’s life fliat 
my mind had clung fast upon seeing Monsieur de Villenave 
for the first time. 

In fact. Monsieur de Villenave had been a resident of 
Nantes in 1793 — that is to say, at the same time as Jean 
Baptiste Carrier, of bloody memory. 

. There he had seen the proconsul, finding trials too long 


MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 


11 


and the guillotine too slow, suppress proceedings at law 
altogether, seeing that they were useless besides, since 
they never spared the guilty, and substitute for the guil- 
lotine boats with a valve. Perhaps he was on the quay of 
the Loire when, on the 15th of November, 1793, Carrier, 
as a first trial of his republican baths and vertical deporta- 
tions — such were the names that he gave to the new kind 
of punishment invented by him — caused ninety-four priests 
to embark, under pretext of transporting them to Belle 
Isle; perhaps he was on the river-bank when the horrified 
stream threw upon its shores the ninety-four corpses of 
these men of God; perhaps, too, he was revolted at that 
spectacle which at the end of some time — being repeated 
every night — had polluted the water to such an extent that 
people were prohibited from drinking it; perhaps, more 
imprudent still, he had aided in giving burial to some one 
of these first victims, who were to be followed by so many 
others; but anyhow, it had happened that one morning 
Monsieur de Villenave had been arrested, cast into prison, 
and destined, like his companions, to do his part toward 
polluting the waters of the river, when Carrier changed his 
mind. He had made choice of a hundred and thirty-two 
prisoners, all condemned, and had ordered them off to 
Paris as a homage from country scaffolds to the guillotine 
of the capital; then no sooner had they set out, than Car- 
rier again changed his mind — without doubt the homage 
had not appeared sufficient to him — and he sent orders to 
Captain Boussard, commandant of the escort, to shoot his 
hundred and thirty-two prisoners on arriving at Ancenis. 

Boussard was a brave man, who did nothing of the sort, 
and went on his way to Paris. 

Carrier learning this, sent orders to the conventionalist 
Ilentz, who was proconsul at Angers, to stop Boussard as 
he passed by, and to cast the hundred and thirty-two men 
of Nantes into the water. 

Hentz did have Boussard arrested; but when it came to 
drowning one hundred and thirty-two prisoners, the brass 
of his revolutionary heart — which was not triple plated, it 
seems — melted, and he commanded the victims to go on 
their way to Paris. 

This caused Carrier to say, as he contemptuously shook 
his head: ‘‘ A small drowner is that man Hentz! a small 
drowner!^^ 


12 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


The prisoners then went on their way. Of a hundred 
and thirty-two, thirty-six perished before reaching Paris, 
and the ninety-six who arrived, happily for them, arrived 
just in time to appear as witnesses in the trial of Carrier, 
instead of answering as the accused in their own trial. 

This was because the 9 th of Thermidor had come, be- 
cause the day of reprisals had come — the time had come 
for the judges to be judged, and because the Convention, 
after a month of hesitation, had just called the “great 
drowner ’’ to account. 

The result was that at the memory of that pamphlet, 
which Monsieur de Villenave had published thirty-four 
years before in his prison, I lived again in the past. What 
I heard was no longer a literary discourse pronounced by a 
professor of the Athenaeum, but a terrible, vehement, 
deadly accusation of the weak against the strong, of the ac- 
cused against the judge, of the victim against the execu- 
tioner. 

And such is the power of the imagination, that hall, 
spectators, platform, all were transformed. The hall of 
the Athenaeum had become the hall of the Convention; the 
peaceful hearers were changed into angry avengers, and 
the eloquent professor, with his honeyed periods, was thun- 
dering forth a public accusation, demanding the death of 
Carrier, and regretting that Carrier had only one life, in- 
sufficient as it was, to pay for the fifteen thousand exist- 
ences that he had cut short. 

And I could see Carrier, with his dark frown, furiously 
repelling the accusation; and I was listening to him as he 
shouted to his old colleagues with his strident voice: 

“ Why blame me to-day for what you ordered me to do 
yesterday? In accusing me does not the Convention ac- 
cuse itself? My condemnation is the condemnation of you 
all. Think of it I You will all be enveloped in the proscrip- 
tion which shall envelop me. If I am guilty, every creat- 
ure here is guilty; yes, all! all! all! even down to the 
president’s little bell!” 

But, nevertheless, they put it to the vote; nevertheless, 
he was condemned. The same terror which had urged into 
action urged into reaction, and the guillotine, after having 
drunk the blood of the condemned, was calmly drinking 
the blood of judges and executioners. 

I had buried my head in my hands, as if it would have 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 13 

been repugnant to me, shockingly bloodthirsty as nad been 
this man, to see inflicted upon him that death which he 
had been so free in meting out to others. 

Delanoue tapped me on the shoulder. 

“ It is over,’^ said he. 

‘‘ Ah!’’ answered I, “he is executed, then?” 

“ Whom do you mean?” 

“ That abominable Carrier.” 

“ Yes, yes, yes,” said Delanoue, “and only thirty-six 
years have elapsed since that little misfortune befell him.” 

“ Ah I” said I, “you did well to awaken me; 1 was 
having the nightmare. ” 

“ Were you asleep, then?” 

“ At least I was dreaming.” 

“ The devil! I’ll not tell that to Monsieur de Villen a ve, 
to whose house I am going to take you, where weTl have 
a cup of tea.” 

“Ah! you may tell him if you choose. Go. I’ll tell 
him my dream, and he will not be at all angry.” 

Upon this, Delanoue, still uncertain whether I was fully 
awake, drew me out of the empty hall and led me into a 
waiting-room, where Monsieur de Villenave was receiving 
the congratulations of his friends. 

Arrived there, I was first presented to Monsieur de Ville- 
nave, then to his daughter, Madame Melanie Waldor, then 
to Monsieur Theodore de Villenave, his son. 

Then everybody set out on foot by the Bridge of the 
Arts to the Faubourg St. Germain. 

After a half hour’s walk we had arrived, and one after 
the other disappeared into that house on the Rue de Vau- 
girard of which I have spoken at the beginning of this 
chapter, and of the interior of which I am going to try and 
give you a description after having roughly sketched its 
exterior. 


II. 

A PASTEL BY LATOUR. 

The house had a character of its own, borrowed from 
the character of its occupant. 

We have said that its walls were gray — we should have 
said that they were black. 

The entrance was through a large door cutting the wall 


14 


MOJ^'SIEFE BE CHAUVELIK’S WILL. 


and placed beside the porter’s lodge; then one found him- 
self in a garden without flower-beds, neglected in every 
part, having grape-vines without grapes, arbors without 
shade, and trees almost entirely bereft of foliage. If per- 
chance a flower sprung up in a corner, it was one of those 
wild flowers almost ashamed to show itself in town, and 
which, having mistaken this damp, dark spot for a little 
desert, had put its head out there by mistake, believing 
itself further than it really was from the habitation of 
men, and which was immediately plucked by a charming, 
rosy-cheeked child with flaxen curls, that seemed like a 
cherub fallen from the sky and lost in this corner of the 
world. 

From this garden, that might measure forty or fifty feet 
square, and which terminated in a broad strip of pavement 
extending to the house, one passed into a corridor paved 
with tiles. 

Upon this corridor, at the back of which was a staircase, 
opened four doors; the first, to the left, belonged to the 
dining-room, then that to the right to a small room. 
Then, again to the left, that of the kitchen, and to the 
right that of the store-room and office. 

This ground-floor, somber and damp, was hardly ever 
used but at meal-times. 

The actual dwelling, into which we were introduced, was 
on the first floor. This first floor was composed of the 
stair-landing, a small reception-room and large parlor, be- 
sides the bedrooms of Madame Waldor and Madame de 
Villenave. 

The parlor was remarkable in its shape and furniture. 

It was a long rectangle, having at each of its corners a 
pier-table and a bust. 

One of these busts was that of Monsieur de Villenave. 

Between the two busts, at the back, over a pier- table 
fronting the fire-place, was the most important specimens 
of art and archeology in the parlor. 

It was the bronze urn containing the heart of Bayard. A 
small bas-relief running around its circumference showed 
the chevalier ‘‘ without fear and without reproach kiss- 
ing the handle of his sword. 

Two large pictures came next; one by Holbein, repre- 
senting Anne Boleyn; the other by Claude Lorraine, repre- 
senting an Italian landscape. 


MOJ^SIEUR DE CHAUVELI^-'S WILL. 


15 


I believe that the two frames hanging opposite to these 
paintings inclosed, one of them, the portrait of Madame de 
Montespan, and the other a portrait of Madame de Sevigne 
or Madame de Grignan. 

Furniture upholstered in Utrecht velvet offered to friends 
of the family its large sofas, with their white and slender 
arms, and to strangers its divans and chairs. 

This story was the peculiar domain of Madame Waldor, 
wliere she exercised her vice royalty. 

We say her viceroyalty, because in reality, despite her 
father^s abandonment to her of this parlor, she was only 
its vice-queen. 

As soon as Monsieur de Villenave entered, he resumed 
the sovereignty of it, and from that moment the reins of 
conversation belonged to him. 

There was something despotic in Monsieur de Villenave^s 
conversation, which extended itself from the family to 
strangers. One felt on entering Monsieur de Villenave’s 
house, that one became a part of the property of that man 
who had seen, studied, and knew so much. That despot- 
ism, tempered as it was by the courtesy that befits a host, 
weighed, however, in an oppressive manner upon the whole 
social circle gathering there. Perhaps when Monsieur de 
Villenave was present the conversation was better handled, 
as they used to express it; but most assuredly it was less 
free, amusing, and witty than when he was not there. 

It was quite the contrary in Nodier’s salon. Nodier's 
presence always made everybody feel more at home. 

Fortunately Monsieur de Villenave seldom came down 
into the jiarlor. That gentleman habitually stayed in his 
own apartments — that is to say, on the second story — and 
ordinarily made his appearance only at dinner; then, when 
he had talked awhile after dinner, when he had moralized 
a little with his son and scolded his wife a little, he would 
stretch himself out in his easy-chair, close his eyes, have 
his hair put up in papers by his daughter, and then go 
back upstairs. 

That quarter of an hour during which the teeth of the 
comb were gently scratching his head was the quarter of 
an hour of bliss that Monsieur de Villenave daily allowed 
himself. 

But why those curl-papers? the reader will ask. 


16 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 

Ill the first place, maybe it was only a pretext for get- 
ting his head combed. 

Then, in the second place, Monsieur de Villenave, as we 
liave said, was a splendid-looking old man, who must for- 
merly have been a handsome young one, and his face, with 
its strongly marked features, was most becomingly framed 
in those waves of fluffy white hair that enhanced so much 
the brilliancy of his large dark eyes. 

Finally it must be owned that, although a learned man. 
Monsieur de Villenave was vain, but vain of his head; that 
was all. 

The rest mattered little to him. AVhether his coat were 
blue or black, his pantaloons wide or narrow, his boots 
round- or square-toed, all that was the affair of his tailor, 
boot-maker, or, rather, of his daughter, who presided over 
all these details. 

Provided that his hair was well dressed, he was satisfied. r 

It is Monsieur de Villenave ‘‘ at home,” as the English 
express it, that I am going to try and describe, without 
hope, though, of success. 

That second floor, divided into infinitely more apart- 
ments than the first, was composed, in the first place, of a 
stair-landing adorned by busts in plaster, an antechamber, 
and four rooms. 

We shall not divide these four rooms into parlor, bed- 
room, study, dressing-room, etc. 

What use had Monsieur de Villenave for all these super- 
fluities? No; there were five rooms for books and port- 
folios; that was all. 

These five rooms might contain, perhaps, forty thousand 
volumes and four thousand portfolios. 

The antechamber already by itself formed an enormous 
library. It had two openings. Of these two modes of 
access, the one on the right opened into Monsieur de 
Villenave’s sleeping-room, which room itself, by a passage 
running along the alcove, opened into a large closet light- 
ed by day as a matter of toleration. 

The one on the left opened into a large room leading 
into a smaller one. 

This large room opening into a smaller one, like the one 
next it, not only had it's four walls lined with book-cases 
full of books and supported by bases of pasteboard boxes, 
but a very ingenious construction besides, like the center 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


17 


ottoman that one sees in reception-rooms, so placed that 
persons can sit all around on it. Thanks to this erection, 
the middle of the room, which presented a second library 
inside a first one, left only a rectangular space free, in 
which a single person might move about freely. A second 
person would have hindered circulation; it was very rarely, 
too, that Monsieur de Villenave introduced any one, even 
an intimate friend, into this “ holy of holies.’’ 

A few privileged parties had stuck their heads through 
the door; and across the learned dust that was incessantly 
whirling around like luminous atoms in the rare rays of 
sunshine that penetrated into this tabernacle, they had been 
able to perceive the bibliographical mysteries of Monsieur 
de Villenave, as Claudius — thanks to his disguise of wom- 
an’s attire — had been able, in the atrium of the Temple of 
Isis, to surprise some of the mysteries of that good goddess. 

Here he kept his autographs. The age of Louis XIV. 
alone occupied five hundred portfolios. 

Here were the papers of Louis XVI., the correspondence 
of Malesherbes, four hundred autographs of Voltaire, two 
hundred of Rousseau. Here were the genealogies of all 
the noble families of France, with their alliances and their 
proofs. Here were kept drawings of Raphael, Jules Re- 
main, Leonardo da Vinci, Andreas del Sarte, Lebrun, 
Lesueur, David and Lethiere; collections of minerals, rare 
plants, and unique manuscripts. 

In short, here was shown the result of fifty years of 
labor, occupied with only one idea, day by day, absorbed 
hour after hour by one single passion — that passion at once 
so gentle and so ardent that possesses the soul of the col- 
lector, and into which the collector throws his mind, his 
joy, his happiness, and his life. 

Those two rooms were precious rooms. Most assuredly 
Monsieur de Villenave, who had more than once narrowly 
escaped giving his life for nothing, would not have parted 
with those two rooms for a hundred thousand crowns. 

There remained the sleeping-room and dark closet, situ- 
ated to the right of the antechamber, and lying, as it were, 
parallel to the two rooms that we have just described. 

The first of these rooms was Monsieur de Villenave’s 
bedroom, a chamber in which the bed was certainly the 
least conspicuous object in it, put back, as it was, in an 
alcove over which closed two doors of carved wood. 


18 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


In this room it was that Monsieur de Villenave received. 

Here, too, if compelled to, one could walk; here, too, if 
compelled to, one could sit down. 

Here is the way in which one could sit down, and this 
the condition under which one could walk there. 

The old servant woman, whose name I no longer recall, 
poking her head in at the door, announced a visitor for 
Monsieur de Villenave. 

This opening of his door always surprised Monsieur de 
Villenave in the midst of some classification, a reverie, or 
a nap. 

Ehl What is it, Fanny?’’ (We’ll suppose that her 
name was Fanny.) Dear me I Can not they leave a 
fellow a minute’s rest?” 

Don’t think hard of me, sir. I had to come — ” 

‘‘ Come, talk fast! What do you want of me? How 
does it happen that it is always just when I am busiest — 
Well?” 

And Monsieur de Villenave raised his big eyes heaven- 
ward with an expression of despair, crossing his hands, and 
uttering a sigh of resignation. 

Fanny was accustomed to the situation; she let Monsieur 
de Villenave go through with his pantomime and his asides. 
Then when he had got through: 

Sir,” said she, “ Mr. Such-a-One has called to pay 
you a little visit.” 

‘‘lam not at home. Be off!” 

Fanny would slowly draw the door to after her. She 
knew her duty. 

“ Wait, Fanny,” resumed Monsieur de Villenave. 

“ Sir?” 

Fanny opened the door again. 

“ You say that it is Mr. Such-a-One, Fanny?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Ah, well! Let us see. Bring him in; then if he stays 
too long, you can come and say that I am wanted. Go, 
Fanny.” 

Fanny shut the door again. 

^ “ Dear me! dear me! Is it credible?” murmured Mon- 
sieur de Villenave. “ I never go abroad to worry anybody, 
and yet somebody has always to be disturbing me.” 

Fanny reopened the door and introduced the visitor. 

“Ah! how do you do, my friend?” said Monsieur de 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 19 

Villenave. “ You are welcome; come in, come in! How 
long it has been since I saw you! Sit down, pray.” 

“ Upon what?” asked the visitor. 

“ Why, upon what you like, of course— on the sofa.” 

“ Willingly; but — ” 

Monsieur de Villenave cast his eyes upon the sofa. 

Ah! yes, that’s so; it is filled up with books,” said 
he. ‘‘ x\h, well, bring forward an arm-chair.” 

I should do so with pleasure; but — ” 

Monsieur de Villenave cast a look around upon his arm- 
chairs. 

That is true,” said he; “ but what would you have, 
my dear sir? I don’t know where to put my books. Take 
a common chair.” 

‘‘ I should ask for nothing better; but — ” 

But what? Are you in a hurry?” 

“ No common seat is empty, any more than an arm- 
chair.” 

‘‘ That is incredible!” said Monsieur de Villenave, rais- 
ing his eyes to heaven — ‘‘ that is incredible! Wait!” 

And he would quit his place with a groan, would care- 
fully take up the books which j^ut one chair out of service, 
and would deposit the said books on the floor, where they 
would add a pile to twenty or thirty similar piles with 
which the floor of the room was heaped, then he would 
bring that chair near to his own arm-chair — that is to say, 
to the corner of the fire-place. 

I have just told under what conditions one could sit 
down in this room, and I shall furthermore tell under 
what conditions one could walk. 

It happened occasionally that at the moment when the 
visitor entered, and had seated himself after the indis- 
pensable preamble had been got through with which we 
have described, it happened occasionally, I say, that, by a 
double combination of chance, that the door of the alcove 
and the passage-door were both open. When, by this 
double combination of the two doors being open at the 
same time, the double effect was produced that one could 
see in the alcove a pastel representing a young and pretty 
woman holding a letter in her hand — a pastel that was 
lighted by the streak of daylight that came from the pas- 
sage window. 

Then either the visitor had no appreciation of art — and 


20 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUYELIN'S WILL. 


it was rare for those who came to see Monsieur de Ville- 
nave not to be artistic in some sense — or he would jump 
up exclaiming: 

“ Ah, monsieur! AVhat a lovely pastel!’^ 

And the visitor would start to go from the fire-place to 
the alcove. 

“ Wait!’^ Monsieur de Villenave would cry out. 

Waitr’ 

In fact, it was evident that tAvo or three piles of books, 
tumbled one upon the other, formed a sort of odd-shaped 
counterscarp that would have to be cleared before the 
pastel could be reached. 

Then Monsieur de Villenave would get up and lead the 
Avay; and as a clever miner makes a trench, he would open 
across the topographical line a passage that brought them 
in front of the pastel, which in its turn faced his bed. 

Arrived there, the visitor would repeat: 

‘‘Oh! but that is an exquisite pastel!’’ 

“Yes,” Monsieur de Villenave would reply Avith old- 
time, courtly air that I have only met with in him and 
two or three other elegant old men like him, “ yes, it is 
one of Latour’s pastels; it represents an old friend of mine 
who is no longer young — for, as well as I can remember, 
at the time when I used to know her, in 1784, she used to 
be my senior by five or six years. Since 1802 Ave have not 
met, which does not prevent our Avriting to each other 
every eight days, and receiving our weekly letters Avith an 
equal pleasure. Yes, you are right, the pastel is charm- 
ing, but the original Avas much more charming still. Ah!” 

And a ray of youth, pleasant as a sunbeam, passed over 
the open countenance of the handsome old man, rejuvenat- 
ed by forty years. 

And very often, in that second case, Fanny had no need 
to come with a false announcement, for if the visitor were 
Avell-bred, after a few minutes he would leave Monsieur de 
Villenave, wholly given up to the reverie aAvakened in him 
by the sight of that beautiful pastel of Latour’s. 


III. 

THE LETTER. 

Now, how had Monsieur de Villena\^e accumulated that 
fine library? 


MOKSIEUPi DE OHAUVELIK’s WILL. 21 

How had he made up a collection of autographs unique 
in the world of collectors? 

By devoting to it the labor of a whole life-time. 

In the first place. Monsieur de Villenave had never 
burned a paper nor torn up a letter. 

Summons to learned societies, wedding invitations, 
funeral notices, all had been kept by him, all classified, all 
pat in their places. He possessed a collection of every- 
thing, and even volumes that, on July 14th, had been 
snatched half-burned from the fire that was consuming 
them in the yard of the Bastile. 

Two searchers after autographs were constantly occupied 
in Monsieur de Villenave’s service. One was a man named 
Fontaine, that I have met, and who was himself the author 
of a book entitled The Manual of Autographers the 
other was an employee of the War Bureau. All the petty 
tradesmen of Paris knew these two indefatigable visitors, 
and laid aside for them all the journals that they bought. 
Among these papers they would select such as they want- 
ed, paying for them fifteen sous by the pound, and after- 
ward Monsieur de Villenave would pay them thirty sous 
per pound. 

Sometimes Monsieur de Villenave' would go the rounds 
for himself. There was no grocer in Paris who did not 
know him, and who, on seeing him, did not put together 
for his learned investigation papers hereafter to be bags 
and horns. 

As a matter of course, the days when he went in search 
of autographs, Monsieur de Villenave had books also on 
the brain; then, indefatigable bookworm that he was, he 
would go the whole length of the quays, and there, with 
both hands in his pantaloons pockets, his tall body bent 
over, his fine, intelligent head lighted up by desire, his 
ardent look would dive into the deepest recesses of the 
stalls, which he was going to search for hidden treasures; 
for a moment he would turn it over, and when the book 
was the one upon which he had set his heart, it left the 
book-stall, not, however, to take its place in the library of 
Monsieur de Villenave. 

There was no place for it there, nor had there been for a 
long time, and exchanges for drawings or autographs had 
to be made that might create that place which for the mo- 
ment was wanting; no, the book was going to take its place 


22 MONSIEUR DE UHAUVELTX’s WILL. 

ill the garret, which was divided into three compartments 
—the compartment of the in-octavos to the left, the com- 
partment of the in-quartos to the right, and the compart- 
ment of in-folios in the middle. 

There was the chaos of which, some day. Monsieur de 
Villenave was to make a new world something like an Aus- 
tralia or a New Zealand. 

Meanwhile, there they were on the floor, thrown one 
upon the other, lying in dim obscurity. 

That garret reminded one of the limbos where were shut 
up the souls that God sends neither to Paradise nor Hades, 
because He has purposes with regard to them. 

One day the poor house, without apparent cause, trem- 
bled to its foundations, uttered a cry, and a crack declared 
itself; the occupants, frightened, thought that there was 
an earthquake, and rushed out into the garden. 

All was quiet both in the atmosphere and on earth; the 
fountain continued to flow at the corner of the street; a 
bird was singing in the highest branches of the tallest tree. 

The accident was partial; it came from a cause secret, 
unknown, inexplicable. 

The architect was sent for. 

He came, examined the house, sounded it, tested it, and 
ended by declaring that the accident could have arisen only 
from excess of weight. 

Consequently he asked leave to visit the garret. 

But upon making this request, he was met by vehement 
opposition on the part of Monsieur de Villenave. 

Whence came that opposition, which had to yield, how- 
ever, to the firmness of the architect? 

It was because Monsieur de Villenave felt that his buried 
treasure, so much the more precious as it was almost un- 
known to himself, ran great danger from this visit. 

In fact, in the middle chamber alone there were found 
twelve hundred folio volumes, weighing nearly eight thou- 
sand pounds. 

Alas! these twelve hundred folios, that had caused the 
house to give way, and that threatened to demolish it, had 
to be sold. 

This grievous operation had to be performed in 1822. 
And in 1826, when I made Monsieur de Villenave’s ac- 
quaintance, he had not yet entirely recovered from the pain 
of it, and more than one sigh, of which his family knew 


]VIONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


23 


neither the cause nor aim, went out after those dear folios, 
collected with so much trouble to himself, and now left 
like children driven away from their father’s house, wan- 
derers, orphans, and scattered over the face of the earth. 

I have already told how pleasant and hospitable the house 
on the Rue de Yaugirard ever proved to me. It was so on 
Madame de Yillenave’s part, because she was naturally 
affectionate; on Madame de Waldor’s part, because, being 
a poet herself, she loved poets; on Theodore de Yillenave’s 
part, because we two were about the same age, and both 
at that time of life when one feels the need of pouring out 
one’s affections and receiving a good share in return. 

Lastly, on Monsieur de Villenave’s part, because, with- 
out being an autograjah fancier myself, thanks to my fa- 
ther’s military career, I was the owner of quite a curious 
collection of autographs in my own right. 

Indeed, my father, having occupied high stations in the 
army from 1791-1800, having been thrice general-in-chief, 
he was found to have been in correspondence with all who 
had played a conspicuous part within that period. 

The most curious autographs of this correspondence 
were those of General Buonaparte. Napoleon did not long 
adhere to the Italian mode of spelling his family name. 
Three months after the 13th Vendemiere he Frenchified 
his name and spelled it Bonaparte. Now, in the course of 
this short space of time, my father had received five or six 
letters from the young general of the interior. This was 
the title he assumed after the 13th of Yendemiere. 

I gave to Monsieur de Yillenave one of these autographs, 
flanked by an autograph of Saint George and one of Car- 
dinal Richelieu ; and, thanks to this sacrifice, which was a 
pleasure for me, I had admission granted me to the second 
floor. 

By degrees I became sufficiently familiar with the family 
for Fanny no longer to have to announce my coming to 
Monsieur de Yillenave. I would go upstairs alone to the 
second story. I would knock at the room door, and open 
as soon as I heard the words “ Come in!” and almost al- 
ways I was well received. 

I say almost always, because great passions have their 
stormy hours. 

Suppose that an amateur in autographs who has coveted 
one precious signature — for instance, one like that of 


24 MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIIs^S WILL. 

Robespierre, of which only three or four have been left be- 
hind; or Moliere, who left only one or two; Shakespeare, 
who, I believe, has left none at all — ah, well! at the very 
moment that our collector is about to put his hand upon 
such a signature, suppose that, by some accident or an- 
other, it escapes him, naturally he would be in a state of 
despair. 

Come in upon him at such a moment, though you were 
his father, his brother, or an angel, and you will see how 
you will be received; unless, to be sure, that angel, by his 
jiower divine, might bring to life that non-existent sig- 
nature, or make two of that one single signature. 

In was in such exceptional cases as these that I had been 
ill-received by Monsieur de Villenave. Under all other 
circumstances I was sure of finding a 'welcome smile, genial 
recognition, and accommodating memory, even during the 
week. 

I say during the week,’’ because with Monsieur de 
Villenave Sunday was reserved for scientific visitors. 

All foreign bibliophilists and autograph collectors com- 
ing to Paris never failed to pay their respects to Monsieur 
de Villenave as vassals go to do homage to their suzerain. 

Sunday, then, was the day for exchanges. Thanks to 
these exchanges. Monsieur de Villenave had nearly com- 
pleted those foreign collections with which his tradespeople 
could not supply him, by abandoning to German, English, 
or American collectors a few clippings from his national 
wealth. 

I was an liaMhie of the house then. I had first been re- 
ceived on the first floor, then on the second; I had been in- 
vited to come every Sunday; then, lastly, to come when- 
ever I chose — I privilege that I shared at most with two or 
three persons. 

Now, one week-day — it was Tuesday, I believe, as I had 
come to beg Monsieur de Villenave to let me study one of 
Christine’s autographs (you know I love to study out the 
character of persons from their handwriting) — one day, I 
say, when I had come with this object in view; it was 
about five o’clock in the afternoon in the month of March, 
I rang the door-bell. I asked for Monsieur de Villenave 
and passed on. 

As I was going into the house, Fanny c#led me baiQk. 

“ What is it, Fanny?” asked L 


MOl^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIK'S WILL. 


25 


Is it the ladies you wish to see, sir, or monsieur?” 

I am goin^* to monsieur’s room, Fanny.” 

Well, sir, if you would be so good as to hand this let- 
ter, which has just come for him, to Monsieur de Villenave, 
it would save my poor limbs from climbing up two flights 
of stairs.” 

“ Gladly, Fanny.” 

Fanny gave me the letter, which I took and went up- 
stairs. 

Arrived at the door, I knocked as was my custom, but 
received no reply. 

I knocked a little louder. 

The same silence. 

At last I knocked a third time, and this time with a sort 
of uneasiness, for the key was in the door, and the presence 
of the key in the door invariably indicated that Monsieur 
de Villenave was in his room. 

I took it upon me then to open the door, and beheld 
Monsieur de Villenave asleep in his arm-chair. 

From the noise that I made, perhaps from the column 
of air that entered and which broke certain magnetic influ- 
ences, Monsieur de Villenave uttered a sort of cry. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon,” cried I, a hundred times I beg 
pardon. I have been indiscreet and disturbed you.” 

“ Who are you? What do you want of me?” 

‘‘lam Alexander Dumas.” 

“Ah!” 

And Monsieur de Villenave drew a long breath. 

“ Indeed I am in despair,” added I, “ and am going to 
withdraw. ” 

“ No,” said Monsieur de Villenave, uttering a sigh and 
passing his hand across his forehead. “No; come in!” 

I went in. 

“ Take a seat.” 

A chair chanced to be vacant, and I took it. 

“You see,” said he. “ Oh! how strange it is! I had 
fallen asleep. It was twilight; at the same time my fire 
went out; you woke me up; I found myself without any 
light, and could not account for the sound that disturbed 
my sleep; undoubtedly it was the current from the door 
sweeping over my face; but I seemed to see the winding of 
a large white sheet, something like a shroud. How 
strange! Isn’t it?” continued Monsieur de Villenave, 


26 MOIS^STEUR DE C’HAUVELTX'S WILL. 

with that shuddering of the whole frame which shows that 
a man is thoroughly chilled. You are here; so much the 
better r’ 

‘‘You say that to console me for my awkwardness.’’ 

“ No, indeed; I am very glad to see you. What have 
you there?” 

“Ah! pardon me, I forgot; a letter for you.” 

“Ah! an autograph — from whom?” 

“ No, it is not an autograph; so far as I know, it is sim- 
ply a letter.” 

“Ah! yes, a letter.” 

“ A letter that came by mail, and which Fanny asked 
me to deliver to you. Here it is.” 

“ Thanks. Stop, if you please. Put out your hand 
and give me — ” 

“ What?” 

“ A match. Indeed I am all bewildered still. If I 
were superstitious, I should believe in presentiments.” 

He took the match that I offered him, and lighted it 
from the red coals in the fire-place. 

By degrees, as it kindled, an increasing light was shed 
abroad through the apartment, and permitted me to distin- 
guish objects. 

“ Good gracious!” exclaimed I all of a sudden. 

“ What is the matter?” asked Monsieur de Villenave, 
lighting the wax candle. 

“ Oh! oh! Your beautiful pastel — what has happened 
to it?” 

“ Yes, you see,” sadly replied Monsieur de Villenave, 
“ I have set it near the fire-place. ITl have to call in the 
glazier and the framer.” 

“ Indeed, the frame is broken and the glass shivered into 
a thousand bits.” 

“ Yes,” said Monsieur de Villenave, regarding the por- 
trait with a melancholy air, and forgetting his letter; “ yes, 
it is an incomprehensible affair.” 

“ But some accident has befallen it?” 

“ Call it up in your mind that day before yesterday I 
had been working the whole evening through. It lacked 
fifteen minutes of midnight, and I went to bed, putting 
my candle on my night-stand, and was making ready to go 
over the proofs of a small, compact edition of my Ovid, 
when my eyes chanced to fall upon the portrait of my poor 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK’S WILL. 27 

friend. I bowed good-night to her, as was my custom. A 
breeze came in through a window left open, no doubt caus- 
ing the flame of my candle to waver so that it seemed to 
me that the portrait nodded a good-night to me by a move- 
ment of the head similar to my own. You understand 
that I considered that vision as folly; but I know not how 
it was, I could not get the idea out of my mind, and my 
eyes were riveted upon the frame. You see how it is, my 
friend, that pastel carries me back to the first days of my 
youth, and revives within me all sorts of memories. There 
I was then, deep in reminiscences of twenty-five years ago. 
I began talking to my portrait; it seemed as if the lips of 
the pastel stirred; then its colors seemed to fade away and 
the countenance to assume a sad expression. At that mo- 
ment midnight began to strike from the Carmelite church- 
tower; from looking sad, the countenance of my poor friend 
grew more and more melancholy. The wind blew. At 
the last stroke of twelve, the closet window was violently 
opened. I heard something like a passing wail, and it 
seemed to me that the eyes of the portrait closed. The 
nail that supported it broke down, the portrait fell to the 
floor, and my wax candle went out. I got up to light it 
again, having no fear whatever, but nevertheless strongly 
impressed. As ill-luck would have it, I could not find an- 
other match, and it was too late to call a servant. I shut 
my closet window and lay down again without a light. 
All that had greatly moved me, and I felt very sad. I ex- 
perienced an incredible disposition to shed tears, and it 
seemed to me that I heard something in the room like the 
rustling of a silk gown. Several times Tasked: ‘ Is any 
one there?’ At last I fell asleep, but late; and on awaken- 
ing 1 found my poor pastel in the condition in which you 
see it.” 

“ OhI what a strange thing!” said I to him. ‘‘And 
have you received your weekly letter?” 

“ What letter?” 

“ The one that the original of the portrait has been ac- 
customed to write you.” 

“No; and that is what makes me uneasy; that is why I 
had bidden Fanny bring or send up without delay any let- 
ters that might come for me.” 

“ Well, how about this one that I brought you?” 

“ That is not her way of folding them.” 


28 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


‘‘ Ah!” 

‘‘ But never mind; she is from Angers.” 

Did she live at Angers?” 

‘‘Yes. Ah! my God! Sealed with black! Poor friend! 
Can any accident have befallen her?” 

And Monsieur de Villenave turned pale while he was 
breaking the seal. 

At the first words that he read, his eyes filled with tears. 

He took out a second letter, inclosed in the first, that 
broke off at its fourth line. 

He carried this unfinished letter to his lips, and offered 
me the other. 

“ Bead it,” said he. 

I read: 

“ Sir, — It is with grief on my own account, augmented 
by what I know you will suffer, when I tell you that Ma- 
dame died last Sunday, just as the last stroke of the 

clock told that it was midnight. 

“ The evening before, just as she was beginning a letter 
to you, she was seized with an indisposition which at first 
we supposed was only a slight one, but it kept on increas- 
ing until the moment of her death. 

“ I have the honor of sending you, incomplete as it is, 
the letter that she had begun to you. This letter will 
prove to you that up to the last moment the regard that 
she professed to entertain for you remained the same. 

“ I am, sir, very sadly, as you may imagine, but very 
sincerely. Your humble friend, 

“ Therese Mirand.” 

Monsieur de Villenave’s eyes followed my eyes as I read. 

“At midnight,” said he to me. “You see, it was at 
midnight that the portrait fell to the floor and was broken. 
Not only does the coincidence fit the day, but the minute.” 

“Yes,” responded I, “ that is so.” 

“ You believe ifc, then?” exclaimed Monsieur de Ville- 
nave. 

“ To be sure I believe it.” 

“Oh! Well, then, come some day, my friend — some 
day when I shall be less troubled, let it be, and I’ll tell 
you of something far stranger.” 

“ Something that has happened to yourself?” 

“No; but something of which I was the witness,” 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WtLL. 29 

When was that?’’ 

Oh, a long time ago. It was in 1774, when I was 
tutor to Monsieur de Chauvelin’s children.” 

And you will tell me about it?” 

‘‘ Yes, I’ll tell you the whole story. Meanwhile, you 
understand — ” 

‘‘ I understand you need to be alone.” 

I got up and prepared to take my departure. 

By the bye,” said Monsieur de Villeiiave, as you are 
passing, be so good as to say to those ladies that I shall not 
be down this evening; but they must not be uneasy about 
me.” 

I made a sign that his request should be attended to. 

Then Monsieur de Villenave turned his arm-chair around 
so that he found himself facing the portrait; then, while I 
was closing the door, I heard him murmur: 

‘‘ Poor Sophie!” 

Now, the story that you are going to read was tne one 
that was afterward related to me by Monsieur de Ville- 
nave. 


IV. 

THE king’s doctor. 

On August 25th, 1774, Louis XV. spent the night at 
Versailles in the Blue Chamber. Near his couch, upon a 
folding-bed, slept the surgeon Lamar tiniere. 

Five o’clock in the morning sounded from the clock in 
the court-yard, and there began to be movement in the 
palace. 

A movement of uneasy shadows that watched over the 
slumbers of the prince at this hour, in which for some time 
past Louis XV., worn out by late hours and excesses, found 
a little repose purchased by the abuse of insomnia, and by 
narcotics when the abuse of insomnia did not suffice. 

The king was no longer young — he was entering upon 
his sixty-fifth year. After having drunk his fill of pleas- 
ures, indulgences, and compliments, and drained them to 
the dregs until no such experience had for him the spice of 
novelty, he was weary of it all. 

That fever of ennui was the worst of his ailments. Acute 
under Madame de Chdteauroux, it had become intermittent 


30 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL* 


under Madame de Pompadour, and chronic under Madame 
du Barry. 

For those who have nothing more to learn, there is 
sometimes left something to love — it is a sovereign re- 
source against the disease by which Louis XV. was at- 
tacked. Satiated by the love which had been poured forth 
upon him by a whole people, and which had been carried 
to the extent of frenzy, that habit of the soul had appeared 
to him too vulgar to be indulged in by a king of France. 

Louis XV., then, had been beloved by his people, his 
wife, and his mistresses; but Louis XV. himself had never 
loved anybody. 

There remains, even to the ennuye, one exciting preoc- 
cupation — that is, suffering. Aside from two or three sick- 
nesses that he had passed through, Louis XV. had never 
suffered, and, favored mortal that he was, as a forewarn- 
ing of old age was only experiencing a commencement of 
fatigue that the doctors represented to him as a signal for 
retreat. 

Sometimes at those famous De Choisy suppers, where 
the tables came up through the floor all laden with viands, 
where pages from the little stables constituted the attend- 
ance, when the Countess du Barry enticed Louis XV. to 
quaff bumpers, the Duke d’Ayen to split his sides with 
laughter, and the Marquis de Ohauvelin to epicurean gay- 
ety, Louis XV., with surprise, perceived that his hand was 
loath to lift that glass full of the sparkling liquor that he 
had loved so much, that his forehead refused to contract 
for that inextinguishable laughter which the sallies of 
Jeanne Vaubernier had once been wont to make blossom 
forth like autumn flowers on the frontiers of his ripe age; 
lastly, that his brain remained cold to the seducing descrij)- 
tions of that very happy life which is procured by sovereign 
power, extreme wealth, and excellent health. 

Louis XV. ’s character was not open. He kept to him- 
self both his joy and sadness. Perhaps, thanks to that in- 
ward absorption of his sentiments, he might have been a 
great politician if, as he said himself, time had not failed 
him. 

As soon as he perceived the change that began to take 
place in him, instead of accepting his portion and philo- 
sophically inhaling those first breezes of old age that wrin- 


MONSIEUR T)E CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 31 

kle the brow and silver the hair, he retired within hirnsell 
and made his observations. 

What makes the liveliest of men sad is the analysis of 
joy or suffering — analysis is a silence thrown in between 
peals of laughter or sobs. 

Until now the king had only been seen to be uninterest- 
ed; now he was sad. He laughed no longer at Madame 
du Barry’s coarse jests, he smiled no longer at the Duke 
d'Ayen’s mischief, and no longer responded to the friendly 
caresses of Monsieur de Chauvelin, his bosom friend, the 
Achates of his royal escapades. 

Madame du Barry felt herself peculiarly aggrieved at 
this lowness of spirits, because toward her especially it de- 
generated into coldness. 

This moral change made the doctors say that if the king 
was not sick he was certainly going to be so. 

Also, on the preceding April 15th, Lamartiniere, his first 
physician, after having made the king swallow his monthly 
medicine, ventured to make a few observations to him that 
he deemed urgent. 

Sire,’’ Lamartiniere had said to him, “ as your maj- 
esty drinks no more, as your majesty eats no more, as your 
majesty is entertained no longer, what are you going to 
do?” 

Why, my dear Lamartiniere,” the king had replied, 
“ whatever shall seem most amusing to me outside of all 
that.” 

‘‘ The thing is, I know of nothing new to offer your 
majesty for your diversion. Your majesty has made war, 
your majesty has tried to like learned men and artists, your 
majesty has loved women and champagne; now, when one 
has tasted glory, flattery, love, and wine, 1 protest to your 
majesty that I search in vain for a muscle, a substance, a 
nervous gland that reveals to me the existence of another 
qualification for some new diversion.” 

‘‘Ah! ah!” ejaculated the king, “do you really think 
so, Lamartiniere?” 

“ Sire, think well over it. Sardanapalus was a very in- 
telligent king — almost as intelligent as your majesty, al- 
though he lived something like two thousand eight hundred 
years before you. He loved life, and busied himself a 
great deal about making a good use of it. I think I know 
that he sought minutely for the means of exercising body 


32 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

and mind in the discovery of the least-known pleasures. 
Well, never have historians taught me that he found out 
anything with which you are unacquainted.’^ 

‘‘ Is that so, Lamartiniere?” 

‘‘ I except champagne wine, sire, of which Sardanapalus 
knew nothing. On the contrary, he had for drinking the 
thick, heavy, and muddy wines of Asia Minor, those liquid 
flames that filter from the pulp of archipelago grapes, 
wines that excite to fury the person intoxicated by them, 
while drunkenness caused by champagne is only a folly.” 

That is true, my dear Lamar tiniere, that is true; 
champagne is a pretty wine, and I have greatly loved it. 
But tell me, did he not end by burning himself upon a 
funeral pyre — this Sardanapq,lus of yours?” 

‘‘ Yes, sire; it was the only kind of pleasure that he had 
not yet tried; he reserved it for the last.” 

-And undoubtedly it was to render this pleasure as live- 
ly as possible that he set fire to himself, his palace, his 
riches, and his favorite?” 

‘‘ Yes, sire.” 

Do I understand that you would advise me, perchance, 
my dear Lamartiniere, to burn Versailles and myself with 
Madame du Barry?” 

No, sire. You have made war, you have seen con- 
flagrations, you were enveloped yourself in the cannonade 
of Fontenoy. A fire would consequently be no new amuse- 
ment to you. Come; let us recapitulate your means of de- 
fense against en7iui.^^ 

“ Oh, Lamartiniere, I am completely disarmed.” 

‘‘ In the first place, you have Monsieur de Chauvelin, 
your friend — a man of wit — a — ” 

“ Chauvelin is no longer witty, my dear.” 

‘‘ Since when?” 

Why, since I have grown tired of him, of course. ” 

“ Pshaw!” said Lamartiniere, ‘‘it is as if you should 
say that Madame du Barry is no longer beautiful since — ” 

“ Since what?” asked the king, reddening a little. 

“ Oh, I know what I mean,” replied the physician, 
bluntly. 

“ The long and short of it is,” said the king, with a 
sigh, “ it is decided that I am going to be sick?” 

“ I fear so, sire.” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN’S WILL. S3 

“ A remedy, then, Lamartiniere, a remedy; let us pre- 
vent the evil.’^ 

Rest, sire. I know of no other. 

“Well?’’ 

“ Diet.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Diversions.” 

“ There I stop you, Lamartiniere.” 

“ How is that?” 

“ Yes, you prescribe diversions for me and do not say of 
what they are to consist. Well, I esteem you ignorant, 
most ignorant! Do you hear, my friend?” 

“ And you are wrong, sire. It is your fault and not 
mine.” 

“ How so?” 

“ One does not divert those who take no pleasure in any- 
thing, having Monsieur de Ohauvelin for a friend and Ma- 
dame du Barry for a mistress.” 

There was a silence, by which the king seemed to admit 
that what Lamartiniere had just said was not without 
foundation of right. 

Then the king resumed : 

“ Well, Lamartiniere, my friend, since we are on the 
subject of sickness, at least let us reason together. You 
say that I have partaken of every pleasure in the world, 
do you not?” 

“ I do say it, and it is so.” 

“ Of war?” 

“ Of course, when one has won the battle of Fontenoy.” 

“ Yes, that was a diverting spectacle — men in rags, four 
miles long and a mile wide, steeped in blood; ascent of 
butchery uplifting to the heart.” 

“ Glory, in short.” 

“ Besides, is it I that won the battle? Wasn’t it Mar- 
shal Saxe? Wasn’t it the Duke de Richelieu? Above all, 
wasn’t it Pecquigny with his four pieces of artillery?” 

“ Never mind; who got the credit of the triumph? 
Why, you!” 

“ I like it so. That, then, is the reason that you think I 
ought to love glory? Ah! my dear Lamartiniere,” added 
the king, uttering a sigh, “ if you knew what wretched ac- 
commodations I had on the eve of Fontenoy!” 

“ Ah, well! be it so; let us pass over glory. Not want- 
2 


34 MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 

ing to acquire it for yourself, you can have it given to you 
by painters, poets, and historians.” 

“ Lamartiniere, I have a horror of all those people, who 
are either snobs of a lower type than my lackeys, or so 
swollen with pride as to be entirely too high and mighty to 
pass beneath my grandfather’s arch of triumph. That 
Voltaire above everything. Why, one day the fellow actu- 
ally slapped me on the shoulder, calling me Trajan. They 
tell him that he is king of my realm, and the blockhead 
believes it. So I’ll none of that immortality which those 
people might give me — one would have to pay too high for 
It in this perishable world, and perhaps even in the next.” 

‘‘ In that case, what do you want, sir — say?” 

I want to make my life last as long as I possibly can. 
I want to have enter into this life just as much as possible 
of the things that I love; and to that end I shall address 
myself neither to the poets, philosophers, nor warriors. 
No, Lamartiniere, after God, you see, decidedly I esteem 
only doctors — when they are good, be it understood.” 

“ You don’t say so.” 

Speak to me frankly, then, my dear Lamartiniere.” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

What have I to fear?” 

‘‘ Apoplexy.” 

Does one die of it?” 

Yes, if one is not bled in time.” 

“ Lamartiniere, you shall not leave me any more.” 

‘‘ That is impossible, sire. I have my patients, I 
have — ” 

Very well; but it seems to me that my health — the 
health of the king — is as interesting to France and to Eu- 
rope as that of all your patients put together. Your bed 
shall be made up every night near to my own.” 

“Sire!” 

“ What matters it to you whether you lie here or else- 
where? And your very presence will be reassuring to me, 
my dear Lamartiniere, and you will scare away sickness — 
for sickness knows you, and knows that she has no more 
determined enemy than you. ’ ’ 

And that is why the physician Lamartiniere found him- 
self, on April 5th, 1774, lying on a cot in the Blue Cham- 
ber at Versailles, sleeping profoundly toward five o’clock 
in the morning, while the king, for his part, was not asleep. 


MOJ^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


35 


Louis XV., who was not sleeping, as we have just stat- 
ed, uttered a deep sigh; but considering that a sigh has no 
positive significance but what the person sighing gives it, 
Lamartiniere, who was snoring instead of sighing, heard it 
between his snores, but paid no heed to it, or, rather, ap- 
peared to pay no attention to it. 

The king, seeing that his physician-in-ordinary was in- 
sensible to that appeal, leaned over the side of his bed, and 
by the light of the great wax taper that was burning in 
the marble mortar he contemplated his watcher, whom a 
thick and soft coverlet reaching up to the top-knot of his 
night-cap hid from the most pertinacious gaze. 

Oh, me I oh, mel’^ sighed the king. 

Again Lamartiniere heard: but as an interjection may 
sometimes escape a man asleep, it is not reason sufficient 
for awakening another one. 

The physician then went on snoring. 

He is happy to be able to sleep so,’’ murmured Louis 
XV. Then he added: “ How corporeal these doctors are I” 

And he took it upon him to wait longer; but having 
waited for a whole quarter of an hour in vain, he finally 
said: 

‘‘Halloo, Lamartiniere!” 

“ Well, what will you have, sire?” asked his majesty’s 
doctor, groaning. 

“ At, my poor Lamartiniere!” repeated the king, moan- 
ing as pitiably as he could. 

“Well! What?” 

And the doctor, grumbling all the while like a man who 
is sure that he may presume upon his position, finally was 
induced to slide out of his bed. 

He found the king seated upon his. 

“ Well, sire, are you suffering?” asked he of him. 

“ I believe I am, my dear Lamartiniere,” replied his 
majesty. 

“Oh! oh! you are a little agitated.” 

“ I should say so — very much agitated, yes.” 

“ About what?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ I know — I do,” murmured the physician. “It is 
fear.” 

“ Feel my pulse, Lamartiniere.” 

“ That is what I am doing.” 


36 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


‘‘Ah, well?’’ 

“ Ah, well, sire, it marks eight-eight pulsations to the 
minute, which is a great deal with old men.” 

“ With old men, Lamartiniere?” 

“ To be sure.” 

“ I am only sixty-four years old, and at sixty-four one is 
not old as yet.” 

“ At that age one is no longer young.” 

“ Come; what do you prescribe?” 

“ First, how do you feel?” 

“ I am smothering, it seems to me.” 

“No; on the contrary, you are cold.” 

“ I must be red, mustn’t I?” 

“ Come, then, you are pale. A word of advice, sire.” 

“ What is it?” 

“ Try to go to sleep again. That would be very nice.” 

“ I am no longer sleepy.” 

“ Let us see. What does that agitation signify?” 

“ Confound it! It seems to me that you ought to know, 
Lamartiniere, or it would not be worth while to be a doc- 
tor.” 

“ Could you have had a bad dream?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“ A dream!” exclaimed Lamartiniere, raising his hands 
to heaven — “ a dream!” 

“ Confound it!” resumed the king, “ there are dreams.” 

“ Well, let’s see. Tell it — your dream, sire.” 

“ It is not to be told, friend.” 

“ Why so? Everything is to be told.” 

“ To the confessor — yes.” 

“ Then send me for your confessor as speedily as possi- 
ble. Meanwhile, I am taking my lancet away.” 

“ A dream is sometimes a secret.” 

“Yes, and sometimes it imports remorse as well. You 
are right, sire. Adieu!” 

And the doctor began to draw on his socks and panta- 
loons. 

“ Let us see, Lamartiniere, let us see. Don’t be vexed, 
my friend. Well, I dreamed — I dreamed that they were 
carrying me to St. Denis.” 

“ And that the carriage was bad? Pshaw! When you 
shall make that journey you will not perceive anything of 
the sort, sire.” 


MOiq-SIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 37 

How can you jest about such things?’’ said the king, 
shuddering. “ No; I dreamed that they were bearing me 
to St. Denis, and that I was alive, buried in the velvet of 
my casket.” 

Did you feel confined in that casket?” 

‘‘Yes, somewhat so.” 

“ Vapors, black humors, bad digestion.” 

“Oh! I did not eat any supper last night.” 

“ Empty, then^” 

“ Do you think so?” 

“Ah! now I think of it, at what hour did you leave Ma- 
dame the Countess yesterday?” 

“ I have not seen her for two days.” 

“You sulk in her company — ill-humor, you must admit 
yourself.” 

“ Oh, no; it is she who is in the sulks. I have not given 
her something that I had promised her.” 

Give her that something quickly, and your spirits will 
revive at once.” 

“ No; I am steeped, in sadness.” 

“ Ah! an idea!” 

“ What is it?” 

“ Breakfast with Monsieur de Chauvelin.” 

“ Breakfast!” exclaimed the king. “ That was fine in 
the days when I had an appetite.” 

“Ah! there it is!” cried the physician, crossing his 
arms; “ you no longer have any use for your friends, nor 
for your mistress, nor even for your breakfast, and you 
think that I am going to suffer that? Very well, sire. I 
declare one thing to you, I do, and that is, that if you 
change your habits you are lost.” 

“ Lamartiniere! My friends make me yawn, my mis- 
tress puts me to sleep, and my breakfast chokes me.” 

“ Well, most positively, then, you are sick.” 

“Ah, Lamartiniere!” exclaimed the king, “I have 
been happy a very long time.” 

“ And do you complain of that? That is like men.” 

“ No, I certainly do not complain of the past, but the 
present; by dint of rolling, the chariot is worn out.” 

And the king uttered a sigh. 

“ That is true, it wears out,” repeated the physician, 
sententiously. 


38 


MONSIEUE DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


So that the springs go no longer/’ sighed the king, 

and I aspire to rest.” 

“ Very well, go to sleep, then!” exclaimed Lamartini^re, 
covering himself up in bed again. 

‘‘ Let me go on with my metaphor, my good doctor.” 

Could I have deceived myself, and you become a poet, 
sire? Another dreadful malady, that.” 

‘‘No; on the contrary, you know that I detest them — 
poets, I mean. To please Madame de Pompadour, I had 
that croaking Voltaire made a nobleman; but from the day 
that he went so far as to be familiar, calling me Titus or 
Trajan — I do not know which now — I was done with him. 
What I wanted to say without poetizing is, that I do believe 
it is time for me to apply the brakes.” 

“ Do you wish to have my opinion, sire?” 

“ Yes, my friend.” 

“ Well, do not apply the brakes, sir, but unharness.” 

“ That is hard,” murmured Louis XV. 

“ That is so, sire. When I speak to the king, I address 
him as your majesty; when I turn to my patient, I do not 
even say sir to him. So, then, sire, get out of the traces, 
and that quickly. And now that the thing is settled, we 
have still an hour and a half for sleeping, sire; so let us go 
to sleep.” 

And the physician again drew his covering about him, 
wrapped in which, five minutes afterward he was snoring in 
so vulgar a manner that the arches of the Blue Chamber 
frowned with indignation. 


V. 

. THE king’s levee. 

The king, abandoned to himself, did not attempt to in- 
terrupt the obstinate doctor, whose sleep, regulated like a 
clock, lasted as long as he had said that it would. 

Half past six had struck. As the valet de cliambre was 
now to enter, Lamartiniere got up and passed into an ad- 
joining closet while his bed was being taken away. 

There he wrote a prescription for the doctors who were 
now to be on duty, and disappeared. 

The king gave orders that his attendants should fii-st 
come in, afterward the noblemen calling. 


•MOXSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK’ S WILL. 


39 


He bowed silently, then held out his legs to the valets 
de chambre, who drew on his hose, clasped his garters, and 
dressed him in his morning-gown. 

Then he fell on his knees before his praying-desk, sigh- 
ing several times in the midst of the general silence. 

Each one had knelt just as the king had done, and like 
him prayed with many distractions. 

The king from time to time turned toward the balus- 
trade, whence ordinarily pressed for admittance the most 
familiar and favored of his courtiers. 

‘‘ For whom is the king looking?” asked the Duke de 
Richelieu and the Duke d’Ayen in a whisper. 

“It is not us, for he would find us,” said the Duke 
d’Ayen; “ but stop, the king rises!” 

Indeed, Louis XV. had finished his devotions, or, rather, 
had been so distracted that he could not recite his prayers. 

“ I do not see the master of the wardrobe,” said Louis 
XV., looking around him. 

“ Monsieur de Chauvelin?” asked the Duke de Richelieu. 

“Yes.” 

“ But, sire, he is here.” 

“ Where then?” 

“ There,” said the duke, turning around. Then sud- 
denly, utterly surprised : “Ah! ah!” said he. 

“ What then?” asked the king. 

“ Monsieur de Chauvelin is still at prayer.” 

In fact, the Marquis de Chauvelin, that agreeable pagan, 
that merry companion in small sacrileges perpetrated by 
royalty, that spiritual foe of the gods in general and the 
Christian’s God in particular, the marquis had remained 
on his knees, not only contrary to his own habit, but, more- 
over, contrary to etiquette, seeing that the king had fin- 
ished his praying. 

“Why, marquis,” asked the king, smiling, “are you 
asleep?” 

The marquis arose slowly, made the sign of the cross, 
and bowed before Louis XV. with profound reverence. 

Every one was accustomed to laugh when Monsieur de 
Chauvelin gave the cue; it was believed that he was jest- 
ing, and they laughed from habit, the king as well as the 
others. 

But almost immediately recovering his seriousness: 

“ Come, come, marquis,” said Louis XV., “you know 


40 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTK'S WILL. 

that I do not like sporting with sacred things. However, 
as you want to brighten me up a little, I presume, you are 
pardoned for the sake of the intention. I only forewarn 
you that you have a great deal to do,’’ added he with a 
sigh, ‘‘ for I am melancholy as death itself.” 

‘‘You melancholy, sire?” asked the Duke d’Ayen; 
“ and what is it, pray, that can sadden your majesty?” 

“ My health, duke, my health, which is giving way. I 
have Lamartiniere to come and sleep in my room; but 
that outrageous fellow, on the contrary, sets himself to 
frightening me. Happily here they seem disposed to laugh. 
Isn’t that so, Chauvelin?” 

But the challenges of the king met with no response. 
The Marquis de Chauvelin himself, whose refined and sen- 
sitive features so willingly reflected his master’s jollity; 
the marquis, so consummate a courtier that he had never 
been behind-hand in gratifying a wish of the king; the mar- 
quis, this time, instead of responding to the need expressed 
by Louis XV. for some distraction, though a slight one, 
remained severely sad and altogether absorbed in an inex- 
plicable gravity. 

Some persons, so contrary was this sadness to Monsieur 
de Chauvelin’s habits — some persons, we say, thought that 
the marquis was carrying on the joke, and that this grav- 
ity would end in a resplendent burst of hilarity; but the 
king that morning had not the patience to wait, and began 
to combat vigorously his favorite’s low spirits. 

“But what the devil is the matter with yon, Chauve- 
lin?” asked Louis XV.; “ are you going to continue my 
last night’s dream? Do you want to be taken out for 
burial too?” 

“Oh! Could your majesty have possibly dreamed of 
such horrible things? ’’.asked Richelieu. 

“ Yes; a nightmare, duke. But, to tell the truth, what 
I stand in my sleep I would rather not have to encounter 
again in my waking hours. Well, come, Chauvelin; what 
is the matter with you?” 

The marquis bowed without replying. 

“ Speak, man! I tell you, speak!” exclaimed the king. 

“ Sire,” replied the marquis, “ I am thinking.” 

“ Of what?” asked Louis XV., astonished. 

“ Of God, sire.” 

“ Of God?” 


41 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’s WILL. 

Yes, sire, God — that is the beginning of wisdom/’ 

This cold and monosyllabic preamble made the king 
shudder, and fixing upon the marquis a more attentive 
look, he discovered in his worn and pinched features the 
probable cause of this unaccustomed sadness. 

‘‘The beginning of wisdom?” said he. “I am no 
longer astonished if that beginning has never had any 
sequence; it is too tiresome. But you were not thinking 
only of God. Of what else were you thinking?” 

“ Of my wife and children, whom I have not seen for a 
lon^ while, sire.” 

‘‘Hold! That is true, Chauvelin. You are married 
and have children, but I had forgotten it; and so must 
you, it seems to me, for during the fifteen years that we 
have seen each other every day, this is the first time that I 
have ever heard you mention them. Well, if you are seized 
with a rage for family life, let them come; I’ll make no ob- 
jection; your apartments in the palace are quite spacious 
enough, it seems to me.” 

“ Sire,’’ answered the marquis, “ Madame de Chauvelin 
leads a strictly secluded life, engrossed with her devotions, 
and — ” 

“ And she would be scandalized, would she not, at the 
goings-on at Versailles? I understand. It is like my 
daughter Louise, whom I can not tear away from St. 
Denis. Then I see no remedy for it, my dear marquis.” 

“ I beg the king’s pardon, there is one.” 

“ What one?” 

“ My quarter will end this evening. If the king would 
allow me to go to Grosbois and pass some days with my 
family — ” 

“ You jest, marquis. Quit me?” 

“ I shall return, sire; but I should not like to die with- 
out having made a few testamentary dispositions.” 

“To die! Plague take the man! To die! How he 
tells you that! How old, then, are you, marquis?” 

“ Sire, ten years younger than your majesty, although 
I appear to be ten years older.” 

The king turned his back upon that humorist, and ad- 
dressing himself to the Duke de Coigny, whose seat was 
very near his dais: 

“Ah! there you are, duke; you have come up just at 
the right time, They were talking about you at supper 


42 


MOKSIEUR . DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


the other evening. Is it true that you exercised hospitality 
toward that poor Gentil Bernard in my Chateau de Choisy? 
It would be a good action for which I should praise you. 
However, if all my castellans should do the same, and en- 
tertain all the poets turned madmen, there would be left 
me no other resource than to repair to Bedlam myself. 
How is that unfortunate getting along?’^ 

“ Badly enough still, sire.” 

And how did derangement come to him?” 

Sire, by giving himself up to pleasure too much in the 
long ago, and, above all, by trying to play the young man 
quite recently.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes; I understand. It was to be expected. He 
is very old.” 

I beg the king’s pardon, sire, but he is only one year 
older than your majesty.” 

‘‘ Indeed! this is insupportable,” said the king, turning 
his back on the Duke de Coigny; ‘‘ not only are they as 
gloomy to-day as the tombs, but they are, besides, as silly 
as geese.” 

The Duke d’Ayen, one of the wittiest men of that witty 
age, perceived the increasing ill-humor of the king, and 
dreading its culmination, determined to put a stop to this 
sort of thing as soon as possible. He took two steps for- 
ward, so as to draw attention to himself. He wore upon 
his vest, his garters, and around his coat gold lace which 
was deep and glittering, and could not fail to attract no- 
tice. The monarch, indeed, saw him. 

By my faith, Duke d’Ayen,” he exclaimed, ‘‘ you 
are as radiant as the sun. Have you then stolen a coach? 
I supposed all the embroiderers of Paris were ruined since 
the marriage of the Count de Provence, when no courtier 
paid them, and to which the princes did not think fit to 
come, for want of money or credit, no doubt.” 

They are ruined, to be sure, sire.” 

Who — the princes, embroiderers, or courtiers?” 

“ All somewhat so, I am afraid; yet the embroiderers 
are the cleverest; they are going to draw out of it.” 

How?” 

‘‘ By this new invention here,” and he pointed at his 
trimmings. 

I do not understand,” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


48 


Yes, sire, these coats embroidered this way are styled 
a la chanceliere.” 

‘‘ I understand still less.’’ 

“ There might be one good way of making his majesty 
comprehend that enigma; it would be by reciting those 
lines that some idle Parisians have made, but I dare not.” 

“ You dare not, duke, you?” said the king, smiling. 

“ By my faith, no, sire; I await the king’s command.” 

“ I give it you.” 

“ The king will at least remember that I do naught but 
obey. Here are the lines, then : 

“ ‘ They make certain braid of material new, 

They serve, though, for gala days only, you see. 

A la chanceli^re is the name that they bear; 

Why so? ’Tis that false and unblushing they be.’ ” 

The courtiers looked at one another, amazed at so much 
audacity, and at the same time all turned toward Louis 
XV. in order to model their countenances after his. The 
Chancellor Maupeou, then in high favor, supported by the 
favorite, was too lofty a personage for one to dare to give 
heed to the epigrams that were incessantly coming out 
against him. The monarch smiled; immediately afterward 
all lips relaxed into a smile. He made no reply, and no- 
body said a word. 

Louis XV. had a singular disposition. He feared death 
horribly, and did not wish any one to allude to his own. 
But whenever opportunity allowed, he took peculiar pleas- 
ure in ridiculing the weakness that nearly all people have 
of concealing their age or their infirmities. He said to a 
courtier, without provocation: 

“You are old, you look badly, you will die very soon.” 

He mingled some philosophy with this, and this same 
day, after having twice received cruel attacks, he exposed 
hiniself to receive a third. 

In order to resume the conversation broken off with the 
Duke d’Ayen, he said to him quite bluntly: 

“ How is the Chevalier de Xoailles? Is it true that he 
is sick?” 

“ Sire, we had the misfortune of losing him yesterday.” 

“Ah! I had told him that it would be so.” 

Then facing the circle of courtiers, augmented by fresh 
arrivals, he perceived the Abbe de Broglio, a man crusty 
and plain-spoken. He apostrophized him in these terms: 


44 


MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 


“ It will be your turn next, abb 6. You were just two 
days younger than he.’^ 

Sire,’’ replied Monsieur de Broglio, all white with pas- 
sion, ‘‘ your majesty went hunting yesterday. A storm 
came up. The king got wet like the rest of us.” 

And yielding his place, he went out furious. 

The king watched him retire with a look mournful 
enough, and added: 

See how that Abbe de Broglio is; he is always angry.” 

Then perceiving at the door his physician Bonnard, and 
with him Bordeu, ^protege of Madame du Barry, and as- 
piring to replace him, he called both of them: 

Come, gentlemen, they do not speak of death here this 
morning; that is your affair. Which of you will find the 
fountain of youth? It would be a world’s wonder, and 
I’ll guarantee his fortune made Why not you, Bordeu? 
You, .^sculapius near Venus, I understand, you have not 
thought of these repairs yet.” 

“I beg the king’s pardon; on the contrary, I have 
thought out a system which is to restore to us that good 
time of history.” 

Of fable,” interrupted Bonnard. 

You believe so,” pursued the king, you believe so, 
my poor Bonnard? The fact is, that under your direction 
my youth is no longer anything but a very bitter recollec- 
tion; and he who would rejuvenate me now would at once 
be historiographer of France, for he would have traced out 
the fairest pages of my reign. Do that, Bordeu, and you 
will effect a cure worthy of a great celebrity. Meanwhile, 
feel the pulse of Monsieur de Chauvelin; only see how pale 
and miserable he looks! Give me your advice as to that 
health, very precious to our pleasures — and to my heart,” 
added he, very quickly.” 

Chauvelin smiled bitterly as he presented his arm to the 
doctor. 

‘‘ To which of you two?” asked he. 

‘‘Both,” replied Louis XV., laughing; “but not to 
Lamartiniere — he is the sort of man to predict a fit of apo- 
plexy for you, as he did for me.” 

“ Be it so, then; I’ll consult you. Monsieur Bonnard — 
the past before the future. What is your advice?” 

“ The marquis is very sick. There is a fullness, an en- 


5H0NSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 45 

largement of the fibers of the brain. He would do well to 
have himself bled, and that very promptly.’’ 

And you, Monsieur Borden?” 

“ I must beg pardon for differing from my learned col- 
league; but I can not be of the same opinion as his experi- 
ence. The marquis’s pulse betrays nervousness. If I 
were speaking to a pretty woman, I should say that he had 
the vapors. He needs cheerfulness, repose, no worries, no 
business, complete satisfaction — in short, all that he finds 
ill the presence of the august monarch, who does him the 
honor to call him friend. I prescribe the continuation of 
the same regime.^ ^ 

Well, we have two admirable consultations, and may 
Monsieur de Chauvelin be enlightened after that. My 
poor marquis, if you chance to die, Bordeu is a dishonored 
man.” 

Ho, sire; vapors kill when they are not attended to.” 

Sire, if I do die, I pray God that it may be at your 
feet.” 

Do no such thing; you would give me a horrible 
fright. But is it not time for mass? It seems to me that 
I see there the Bishop de Senez and the curate of our par- 
ish, St. Louis. They are going to give me a little content- 
ment this time. Good-day, curate; how comes on your 
fiock? Are there many sick and poor?” 

“ Alas! sire, a good many.” 

But are not alms abundant? Has the price of bread 
been raised? Has the number of poor wretches increased?” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, sire.” 

How does that happen? Where do they come from?” 

“ Sire, applications for charity come even from footmen 
in your palace. ” 

“ I believe it — they are not paid. Do you hear. Mon- 
sieur de Richelieu? And can not this matter be set to 
rights? What the devil! You are First Gentleman of the 
Bed-chamber this year.” 

Sire, the footmen are not in my department; they be- 
long to the province of general stewardship.” 

“ And the stewardshi23 will send them to somebody else. 
Poor people!” said the king, with momentary feeling; 

but I can not do everything. Follow us to mass. 
Bishop, follow us to mass,” added he, turning to the Abbe 


40 MOKSIEFR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

cle Beauvais, Bishop of Senez, who was preaching at court 
during Lent. 

‘‘ I am at your majesty’s service,” replied the bishop, 
bowing; “ but I have heard solemn words here. They 
speak of death, and yet nobody thinks of it; nobody thinks 
that it is coming at its appointed hour, when one is not ex- 
f)ecting it; that it surprises us in the midst of pleasures, 
that it strikes high and low with its inexorable scythe. 
Nobody reflects that there is coming a time when repent- 
ance and penitence are as much a necessity as a duty, when 
the fires of concupiscence must be extinguished before the 
great thought of salvation.” 

‘‘ Richelieu,” interrupted the king, smiling, “ it seems 
to me that the bishop casts many stones into your garden.” 

‘‘ Yes, sire; and he casts them with such force that they 
rebound even into the park of Versailles.” 

‘‘ Ah! well answered, duke. You are as good at re- 
partee to-day as you were twenty years ago. Bishop, this 
discourse commences well; we will take it up again Sun- 
day in the chapel. I promise you to give it a hearing. 
Chauvelin, we will dispense with your attendance; you 
need recreation. Go and wait for me at the countess’s,” 
added he in an undertone. ‘‘ She has received her famous 
golden mirror — Rotiers’ cluf-cVmivre. You must see 
that.” 

‘‘ Sire, I prefer to repair to Grosbois.” 

‘‘Still! You are a silly dear. Go and see the countess; 
she will exorcise the witches. Gentlemen, to mass! to 
mass! This is a day that has had a poor beginning. What 
a thing it is to grow old!” 


VI. 

MADAME DU BARRY ’s MIRROR. 

The marquis, out of obedience to the king, and in spite 
of the repugnance he felt to obedience, repaired to the 
abode of the favorite. 

The favorite was wild with joy; she was dancing around 
like a child, and no sooner was Monsieur de Chauvelin an- 
nounced than she ran to him, and, without giving him time 
to say a single word: 

“ Oh, my dear marquis, my dear marquis!” exclaimed 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK'S WILL. 47 

she, you come in the very nick of time! To-day I am 
the happiest person in the world! I have had the most 
charming awakening that any one could have. In the first 
place, Rotiers has sent me my mirror; it is that you are 
come to see, no doubt; but we must wait for the king. 
And then, as several good things always come together, the 
famous carriage has come, you know — the carriage that 
Monsieur d’Aiguillon gives me.” 

Ah! yes,” said the marquis, ‘‘ the vis-a-vis of which 
they are talking everywhere. That was richly owing to 
you, madame.” 

‘‘Oh! I know that people are talking about it. Good 
gracious! I even know what they say about it.” 

“ Truly, you know all.” 

“ Yes, nearly. You understand, though, I laugh at it. 
Stop! here are some verses that I found this morning in 
the very pockets of the vis-a-vis. I could have the poor 
saddler arrested; but pshaw! those things did for Madame 
de Pompadour. I am too well satisfied to be revengeful, I 
am. Besides, the lines are not bad, it strikes me; and if I 
was always treated thus, upon my word of honor I would 
not complain.” 

And she presented the lines to Monsieur de Chauvelin. 

Monsieur de Chauvelin took them and read: 

“ ‘ For what that grand and gay turn-out? 

Is it the chariot of a goddess, 

Or of some charming princess?’ 

Exclaimed an idler in amaze. 

‘ No, no,’ replied a caustic wit. 

‘ The truth, my friend, you have not hit. 

’Tis the chariot of the washer woman. 

Of that infamous D’Aiguillon.’ ” 

And the giddy courtesan burst into loud peals of laugh- 
ter. Then she resumed: 

“ ‘ Of that infamous D’Aiguillon,’ you hear; his ivash- 
er-woman. Bless me! the author is right, and that is not 
saying too much. Without me, indeed, the poor duke, in 
spite of the powder with which he was covered at the bat- 
tle of — I never know the names of battles — without me 
the poor duke would have remained under a dark, dark 
shadow. But, pshaw! What matters it, as said my pre- 
decessor, Monsieur de Mazarin, ‘ they sing; they shall pay 
for it,’ and a single one of the panels in my vis-a-vis is 


48 3I0KSIEUE DE CHAUVELIIT’S WILL. 

worth more than all the epigrams that they have made 
against me during the whole four years. I am going to 
show it to you. Come, marquis, follow me.” 

And the countess, forgetting that she was no longer 
Jeanne Vauhernier, and forgetting the age of the marquis, 
went singing down the steps of a private staircase leading 
to a small court-yard where were kept her equipages. 

“ See,” said she to the marquis, who was all out of 
breath, ‘‘is it presentable enough for a washer-woman’s 
carriage?” 

The marquis stood there stupefied. Never had his eyes 
beheld anything more magnificent and at the same time 
elegant. Upon the four principal panels were seen the 
Du Barry arms, with the famous battle-cry, “ Push for- 
ward.” Upon each of the side panels was seen repeated a 
basket adorned with a bed of roses, upon which two doves 
were tenderly billing; the whole polished with Martin gild- 
ing, the secret for which is now lost. 

This carriage cost fifty-six thousand livres. 

“ Has the king seen this superb present, countess?” 
asked the Marquis de Chauvelin. 

“ Not yet; but I am sure of one thing.” 

“ Of what thing are you sure? Let us see.” 

“ That he will be charmed with it.” 

“Whew! whew!” 

“ How — whew! whew?” 

“ Yes, I doubt it.” 

“ You doubt it?” 

“ I even bet that he will not permit you to accept it.” 

“ And why?” 

“ Because you could not use it.” 

“ Well, really!” returned she, ironically. “ Ah! you 
make a f!iss over so little.” 

“Yes.” 

“ You’ll see something very different, though; and the 
gold mirror, then, and this,” added she, drawing a paper 
from her pocket; “ but as for this, you shall not see it.” 

“As you like, madame,” replied the marquis, bowing. 

“ And yet, after that monkey, De Richelieu, you are the 
oldest friend of the king; you know him well; he listens to 
you; you could help me if you would; and then — Let us 
go up into my cabinet again, marquis.” 

“ It is for you to command, madame.” 


MOKSIEUE DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


49 


You are in a very ill-humor to-day. What is the mat- 
ter with you?’’ 

I am sad, madame.” 

“Ah! So much the worse. That is folly.” 

And Madame du Barry, acting as guide to the marquis, 
began to climb, with a more sedate step, the private stair- 
case that awhile ago she had come down so lightly and sing- 
ing like a bird. 

She returned to her cabinet. Monsieur de Chauvelin fol- 
lowing her closely; then she closed its door, and turning 
with animation to the marquis, she said to him: 

Come, now, do you love me, Chauvelin?” 

You can not doubt my respect and devotion, ma- 
dame.” 

“ Would you serve me in opposition to all?” 

‘‘ Except the king, madame.” 

In any case, if you do not approve of what you are 
going to learn, you will remain neutral?” 

I promise this if you exact it.” 

Your word.” 

Upon the faith of a Chauvelin.” 

Read, then.” 

And the countess handed over to him the strangest, 
boldest, most absurd document that a gentleman’s eyes 
ever rested upon. At first the marquis did not compre- 
hend the whole bearing of it. 

It was a petition addressed to the pope for the breaking 
off of her marriage with the Count du Barry, under pre- 
text of having been his brother’s mistress, and the canons 
forbidding such alliances, that marriage was necessarily 
null; she added, that, forewarned — immediately after the 
nuptial benediction had been pronounced — of the sacrilege 
that she was going to commit, of which she had no suspi- 
cion until then, she had been seized with fear, and the mar- 
riage had not been consummated. 

The marquis read this supplication over twice, and re- 
turning it to the favorite, asked her what she expected to 
do with it. 

‘‘ Why, send it away, apparently,” replied she, with her 
ordinary effrontery. 

“ To whom?” 

To its address.” 

To the pope?” 


50 


MONSIEUK DE CHAUVELIi^’S WILL. 


To the pope/’ 

After that?” 

Do you not guess?” 

‘‘No.” 

“ Good gracious! but your head is dull to-day.” 

“ That is possible; but the fact is that I can not im- 
agine.” 

“You have believed, then, that I aimlessly favored Ma- 
dame de Montesson? You have forgotten, then, the great 
dauphin and Mademoiselle Choin? Louis XV. and Ma- 
dame de Maintenon? They are crying out to the king all 
day long that he must imitate his illustrious grandfather. 
They will have nothing to say then. I am as good as the 
Widow Scarron, it seems to me; and if ages are compared, 
I have the advantage.” 

“Oh, madame! madame! what, have I just heard?” 
said Monsieur de Chauvelin, turning pale and taking one 
step backward. 

At that moment the door opened, and Zamore announced : 

“The king.” ■ 

“ The king!” exclaimed Madame du Barry, seizing the 
hand of Monsieur de Chauvelin. “ The king! Not a 
word. We will resume this subject another time.” 

The king entered. 

His looks were directed to Madame du Barry, in the first 
place, and yet it was to the marquis that he addressed his 
first remark. 

“Ah! Chauvelin! Chauvelin!” exclaimed the king, 
struck by the alteration of the marquis’s features, “ can it 
be that you are going to die for good? I declare, my 
friend, you have the look of a specter.” 

“To die! Monsieur de Chauvelin die!” exclaimed the 
silly young woman, laughing. “ Ah! well, yes, I prohibit 
him from doing any such thing. You forget, sire, what 
the horoscope foretold about him five years ago at the fair 
of the St. Germain lodges.” 

“ What horoscope?” asked the king. 

“ Must I repeat it?” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ You do not believe in fortune-telling, I hope, sire.” 

“No; but though I should believe in it, tell it all the 

same.” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


51 


Ah, well! They predicted to Monsieur de Ohauvelin 
that he would die two months before your majesty.’’ 

“And what fool predicted that to him?” asked the 
king, with a certain uneasiness. 

“ Why, a very skillful sorcerer — the same who predicted 
for me — ” 

“Foolishness, all of it!” interrupted the king, with a 
very marked movement of impatience. “ Let us see the 
mirror.” 

“ Then, sire, we shall have to pass into the chamber to 
that side.” 

“ Let us proceed thitlier.” 

“ Show us the way, sire. You know it; it is the bed- 
chamber of your very humble servant.” 

The king did indeed know the way, and went first. 

The mirror was placed upon the dressing-table, covered 
with a thick veil that fell at a word from the king, and 
they could admire a chef-cV mivre worthy of Benvenuto 
Cellini. That mirror, the frame of which was in massive 
gold, was surmounted by two cupids in full relief support- 
ing a crown royal, beneath which was naturally placed the 
head of the person who contemplated herself in tlie glass. 

“Ah! but it is superb!” cried the king. “ Rotiers has 
indeed surpassed himself! I shall compliment him upon 
his effort. Countess, it is I who give you this, be it well 
understood.” 

“You give me everything?” 

“ To be sure I give you everything.” 

“ Mirror and frame?” 

“ Mirror and frame.” 

“ Even that?” added the countess, with a seducing 
smile that made the marquis shudder, above all after what 
he had just read. 

The countess pointed to the royal crown. 

“ That toy?” answered the king. 

The countess gave a little nod with her head. 

“ Oh! you can amuse yourself with it as much as you 
please, countess; but I warn you that it is heavy. Ah! 
but there’s one thing, Chauvelin; you will not cheer up 
even in the presence of madame, and in presence of her 
mirror, which is a double favor that she grants you, since 
you see her twice. ” 


52 MOi^SIEUR DE CHAUYELIN'S WILL. 

The royal madrigal was rewarded by a kiss from the 
countess. 

The marquis did not unbend. 

“ What do you think of that mirror, marquis? Give us 
your opinion. Come!’’ 

Why should I do so, sire?” asked the marquis. 

“ Why, because you are a man of good taste, to be sure.” 

‘‘ I should have preferred not to see it. ” 

Well, and why, pray?” 

Because at least I should have been able to deny its 
existence.” 

“ What means that?” 

“ Sire, the royal crown is ill placed in the hands of 
loves,” replied the marquis, bowing profoundly. 

Madame du Barry crimsoned with rage. 

The king, in embarrassment, pretended not to under- 
stand. 

“ On the contrary, how charming are those loves,” re- 
sumed Louis XV. ; “ they hold that crown with unparal- 
leled grace. See their little arms, how beautifully they are 
curved; would not one say that they were carrying a gar- 
land of flowers?” 

“ That is their proper employment, sire; loves are good 
only for that.” 

“ Loves are good for everything. Monsieur de Chauve- 
lin,” said the countess. “ You did not doubt it formerly; 
but at your age one no longer recalls those things.” 

To be sure; and it is young men of my sort that it be- 
comes to remember them,” said the king, laughing. 
‘‘ However that may be, the mirror, then, does not please 
you?” 

‘‘ It is not the mirror, sire.” 

‘‘ What else, then? Could it be the charming visage 
that it reflects? The devil! You are hard to please, mar- 
quis?” 

‘‘ On the contrary, nobody renders more sincere homage 
to madame’s beauty.” 

‘‘ But,’^ demanded Madame du Barry, impatiently, if 
it is neither the mirror nor the face reflected in it, what is 
it, then — say?” 

‘‘ It is the place that it occupies.” 

“ On the contrary, does it not marvelously well become 
that toilet-table, likewise a gift to me from his majesty?” 


MOK'SIEUR DE CHAUVELTi^’S WILL. 53 

It would be better elsewhere.’’ 

^ ‘‘ But where, pray? For verily you anger me'with that 
air of yours, which you never wore before.” 

“ In the room of the dauphiness, madame!” 

‘^How!” 

“ Yes, the crown of jleurs^de-lys can only be for her 
who has been, who is, or who will be Queen of France.” 

Madame du Barry’s eyes flashed lightning. 

The king made a terrible mouth. 

Then he arose, saying: 

“ You are right. Marquis de Chauvelin; your mind is in 
an unhealthy condition. Go and take some rest at Gros- 
bois, since you are so dissatisfied with us. Go, marquis, 
go!” 

Monsieur de Ohauvelin made a profound bow for his sole 
reply, left the cabinet, walking backward, as if he had 
been in the grand apartments of Versailles, and strictly 
observing the etiquette which prohibits the salutation of 
any other person in presence of the king, he disappeared 
without even having glanced at the countess. 

The countess bit her nails in her fury; the king endeav- 
ored to pacify her. 

“ That poor Ohauvelin,” said he, ‘‘ must have had such 
a dream as I had. Indeed, all these strong minded-people 
succumb to the first stroke when the black angel touches 
them with his wing. Ohauvelin is ten years younger than 
I am, and still I have the vanity to believe that I hold my 
own better than he does.” 

Oh, yes, sire, you hold your own better than anybody 
in the world. You are wiser than your councilors and 
younger than your children.” 

The king beamed at this last compliment, which he tried 
to merit, contrary to the advice of Lamartiniere. 


vn. 

THE MOHK, THE TUTOR, THE STEWARD. 

The day after the day when the king had allowed Mon- 
sieur de Ohauvelin to withdraw to his estates, the mar- 
chioness, wife of the latter, was walking in the Grosbois 
park with her children and their tutor. 

A holy and noble woman, forgotten under the shade of 


54 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

these great oaks by the corruption that had been preying 
upon France for the last fifty years, Madame de Chauvelin 
had still for her consolation the God who blessed her, her 
children who loved her, and her vassals who reverenced 
her. 

She returned to God only her prayers, to her children 
their love, to her neighbor charity. 

Always occupied with what her husband was doing, she 
followed him in thought to the stormy theater of court life, 
as the sailor’s wife follows with her heart the poor voyager 
on the deep, lost in fogs and storm. 

The marquis had loved his wife tenderly. Become a 
courtier and a preferred one, he had never thrown his last 
stake in that game which kings always win from their 
favorites; the happiness of domestic life was the pure and 
ideal fiame upon which he smiled from afar. 

That voyager of whom we spoke awhile ago regarded 
that love of family as the shipwrecked man regards the 
light-house. He hoped after the squall of wind was over 
to warm himself at the ever-blazing, joyous fire of his own 
hearth-stone. 

Monsieur de Chauvelin deserves credit for never having 
forced the marchioness to come and reside at Versailles. 

The pious woman would have obeyed, and sacrificed her- 
self. 

But the marquis had never spoken of such a thing but 
once. 

Upon seeing the regret pictured in his wife’s eyes at the 
first mention of such a move, he gave it up. It was not 
as evil-disposed persons went away saying, that Monsieur 
de Chauvelin dreaded his wife’s lectures; any debauchee, 
any courtier groveling before the concubine or the mon- 
arch, finds courage enough to rule his wife and discipline 
his children. 

No, Monsieur de Chauvelin had abandoned his wife to 
her holy meditations. 

“ I am earning enough acres of territory in hell,” said 
he; ‘‘ let us allow my good wife to earn a few inches of 
azure for me in heaven.” 

He was seen no more at Grosbois; his wife prepared a 
feast for him every year on his birthday, when he would 
arrive at St. Andrew. 

It was an invariable rule. Monsieur de Chauvelin would 


MOJ^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 55 

greet his children at two o’clock, would dine in their com- 
P^'^y? into his carriage at six o’clock, and was in attend- 
ance upon the king when he went to rest. 

For four years this routine had been followed out. In 
four years he had four times pressed his lips upon the mar- 
chioness’s hand. On New Year’s Day his sons would go to 
see him at Versailles with their tutor. 

Monsieur de Chauvelin intrusted his wife with the care 

of bringing up his children. The Abbe V , a young 

scholar who had not yet received orders, but who, not- 
withstanding, was titled abbe through courtesy, zealousl}’’ 
seconded the marchioness’s efforts, and gave all his time 
and affections to these young children abandoned by their 
father. 

Life was pleasant at Grosbois. The marchioness divid- 
ed her time between the administration of her affairs, con- 
fided to an old steward named Bonbonne, between the ex- 
ercises of an austere piety, the aspirations of which were 
directed by a Camaldule monk of fine character and ability 
— that is. Father Delar — and the education of the two 
children, who promised to bear worthily a name made illus- 
trious by great services rendered the state. 

Sometimes a letter, escaped from the marquis in his 
hours of disgust, came to comfort his family and revive in 
the heart of the marchioness a tenderness which she often 
reproached herself with not giving entirely to God. 

Madame de Chauvelin still loved her husband, and when 
she had prayed all day. Father Delar, her spiritual director, 
would call her attention to the fact that she had spoken to 
God only of her well-beloved husband. 

The marchioness had reached the point where she neither 
expected nor hoped for her husband upon earth. She fiat- 
tered herself, good and pious creature that she was, to 
merit sufficiently well of God to be permitted to rejoin 
Monsieur de Chauvelin in the abode of eternal joys. 

The monk scolded Monsieur Bonbonne, and Monsieur 

Bonbonne the Abbe V when the children, sad, or put 

to do penance, appeared to regret their father, whom, how- 
ever, they were so little acquainted with. 

‘‘ It must be owned,” said the monk to his penitent, 
‘‘ that this kind of life will damn Monsieur de Chauvelin.” 

“ It must be owned,” said the old steward, that this 
carrying on will ruin the house.” 


5G MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

' '‘Let US admit/’ said the tutor, “ that these children 
will never have glory, having liad no emulation.” 

And the angelic marchioness would smile on all three as 
she replied to the monk that Monsieur de Chauvelin would 
be redeemed in time; to the steward, that the economy 
practiced at Grosbois would make up for the depletion of 
the treasury so freely bled at Paris; to the tutor, that the 
children came of good blood, and that good blood was in- 
capable of falsehood. 

And during all this time at Grosbois the secular oaks 
and tender scions grew on, both drawing their sap and 
vigor from the fruitful bosom of their Maker. 

An unhappy day came. On that day the flowers in the 
park, the fruits in the garden, the waters in the basin, and 
the stones of the mansion dried up and became bitter and 
gloomy. It was a disorderly day in this family. The 
steward Bonbonne presented tremendous accounts to the 
marchioness, and foretold to her ruin for her children if 
Monsieur de Chauvelin did not make haste to retrieve his 
affairs. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ after breakfast permit me to ex- 
change twenty words with you.” 

. “ Go on, my dear Bonbonne,” replied the marchioness. 

“ Kemember, madame,” interrupted Father Delar, 
“ that 1 am waiting for you at the chapel.” 

“ And let me have the honor of reminding the mar- 
chioness,” said the Abbe V , “ that we have an exami- 

nation on mathematics and grammar appointed for to-day, 
without which these two young gentlemen will not work.” 

The young Chauvelins were beginning to rebel against 
tasks in Latin and science, under pretext that their father 
did not care wdiether they were learned or not. 

The marchioness began by taking the arm of Father 
Delar. 

“ Father,” said she, “ I am going to begin with you. 
My confession will be short, thank God. Here it is: Yes- 
terday I had wanderings of mind during divine service.” 

“ About what subject, my daughter?” 

“ Upon the subject of expecting a letter from Monsieur 
de Chauvelin, and it did not come.” 

“ Consider well if that be all.” 

“ That is all,” answered the marchioness, with a seraphic 
smile, ■ • ^ 


^rOKSIEUR chauvelik's will. 57 

The monk withdrew. 

Now for you, abbe: the examination would be long, 
there would be grief. When the children complain they 
do not know their lessons, if they do not know them, and 
you should report it to me, I shall be forced to scold or 
punish them. Spare them, spare us, and let us defer the 
testing of their knowledge to a day that will be more satis- 
factory for all.’’ 

The abbe agreed that the marchioness was right. He 
disappeared like the monk, who was already to be seen 
vanishing into the misty depths of the verdant arcades. 

Now for you, Bonbonne,” said the marchioness. 

You are the last. Shall I also have a good adjustment 
of your frowning brow and profound sighs?” 

I doubt it.” 

‘‘Ah! Let us see.” 

“ That is easy; my accounts are terrifically true.” 

“ You frighten me! You have never succeeded in creat- 
ing alarm in my private cash-box.” 

“ This month your cash -box will know fear, madame — 
more than fear: it will burst.” 

“ Come, then; have you counted it up with me?” re- 
sumed the marchioness, trying to make a jest of it. 

“ Have I counted it up with you? I believe so, indeed; 
a pretty difficulty.” 

“ I have never spoken of it to any one, Bonbonne.” 

“ It would be better! But I have no need of that in 
order to know.” 

“ To know what?” 

“ The amount of your savings.” 

“I defy you to know!” exclaimed the marchioness, 
blushing. 

“ If that is so, I go straight to the mark. You have 
twenty-five thousand five hundred crowns nearly.” 

“ Oh, Bonbonne!” interrupted the marchioness, indig- 
nantly, as if the steward had indiscreetly penetrated a pain- 
ful secret. 

“ The marchioness does not suspect me, I hope, of hav- 
ing fumbled in her strong-box.” 

“ Then — how — ” 

“ How much have you a year for your house? Isn’t it 
ten thousand crowns?” 

“Yes.” 


58 


MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 


How much do you spend? Is it not eight thousand 
crowns?’’ 

“Yes.” 

“ Have you not been saving up ten years, since Monsieur 
de Chauvelin. has been living at court for ten years?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, madame, with the interest accruing, you have 
twenty-five thousand crowns — or you ought to have them.” 

“ Bonhomie!” 

“ I have guessed. Now, if you have them, you will give 
them to Monsieur de Chauvelin, then, on his first demand. 
And if you give them, there will remain nothing to your 
children in case that Monsieur de Chauvelin should be sud- 
denly carried off.” 

“ Boiibonne!” 

“ Let us talk openly. Your property is pledged. Mon- 
sieur de Chauvelin, on his side, owes seven hundred thou- 
sand livres.” 

“ He is worth sixteen hundred thousand.” 

“ Be it so. But the surplus of nine hundred thousand 
will not satisfy his creditors.” 

“You frighten me.” 

“I try to.” 

“ To what end?” 

“ That you beseech Monsieur de Chauvelin, who spends 
too much, to alienate immediately, for the benefit of your 
children, the nine hundred thousand livres that remain; 
beg him to settle it on you as a dower, or to have it re- 
stored to you by a will.” 

“A will! Good God!” 

“ There you are again with your scruples! Does a man 
have to die because he makes a will?” 

“ To talk of making his will to Monsieur de Chauvelin!” 

“ There it is! Fearing to disturb the marquis in his joy, 
in his digestion, his credit, by that ugly word; the future 
is a word that in happy times always sounds like the word 
death. Ah! if you fear that — very well, you will ruin 
your children, and will have the comfort of having spared 
the ears of the marquis.” 

“ Bonbonnel” 

“ I am a cipher talking. Read my accounts.” 

“ It is frightful!” 

“ It would be yet more frightful to expect what I an- 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


59 


nounce to you. Take the advice of a wise counselor; get 
into your carriage and make haste to reach the marquis.” 

At Paris?” 

‘‘ No; at Versailles.” 

‘‘I! in the society that my husband sees? Never!” 

‘‘ Write, then.” 

“ Will he even read my letter? Alas! when I write 
to congratulate him or to invite him here, he does not even 
read what I write; how will it be if I take up the pen of a 
man of business?” 

“ Let a friend take that step then, in your stead— me, 
for example. Oh, say you that he will not listen to me? 
Yes, but he will listen to me, madame.” 

You will make him sick, Bonbonne.” 

His doctor will cure him.” 

You will make him angry, and anger will kill him.” 

‘‘ No; it is too important to me for him to live. If I 
were to kill him, it would be after having made him write 
his will.” 

And the good man burst into a loud fit of laughter which 
the marquise took in ill part. 

Bonbonne, by speaking thus it is I that you will kill,” 
murmured she. 

Bonbonne respectfully took her hand. 

“ Pardon me for forgetting myself, marchioness. Order 
them to put the horses to the carriage, that I may set out 
for Versailles.” 

“Ah! God be praised! You will convey my register 
and— Hold!” 

“ What is the matter?” 

“ Can my desires have already been understood?” 

“How?” 

“You have spoken of my carriage?” 

“Yes.” 

“ There it is, in the Avenue du Mail.” 

“Ah!” 

“ The family livery.” 

“ Those are the marquis’s iron-gray horses.” 

“ Madame! madame!” called the abbe. 

“ Madame! madame!” cried Father Delar. 

“Madame! madame!” cried twenty voices in the 
grounds, outhouses, and park. 

“ Mamma! mamma!” cried the children. 


60 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


“ The marquis himself! Oh, can it be true?’’ mur- 
mured the marchioness. He at Grosbois, and to-day?” 

How do you do, madame?” said the marquis from 
afar, whose carriage had just come to a halt, and who 
alighted joyously with gestures of eager delight. 

“ He himself, sound in body and cheerful in spirit. 
Thanks, oh, my God!” 

“ Thank God!” repeated the twenty voices that had an- 
nounced the arrival of the master and father. 


VIII. 

A gambler’s oath. 

It was indeed the marquis himself. He tenderly embraced 
the two children, who had uttered a cry of joy on seeing 
him, and imprinted a kiss upon the hand of the stupefied 
marchioness that came from the heart. 

“ You, monsieur! You!” said she, taking his arm as 
she spoke. 

“ Myself. But these children were playing or working. 
I do not want to interrupt their studies, still less their 
play.” 

Ah, monsieur, for the little time that they have for 
seeing you, let them give themselves up entirely to the joy 
of your dear presence.” 

“ Thank God! Madame, they will see me a long while.” 

‘‘ A long while! Until to-morrow evening will it be? 
You will not go before to-morrow evening?” 

‘‘ Still better, madame.” 

“ Will you rest two nights at Grosbois?” 

“Two nights, four nights, always.” 

“Ah! tell me how this has come about?” eagerly ex- 
claimed the marchioness, without perceiving that such sur- 
prise involved in it a reproach against Monsieur de Chauve- 
lin for his past conduct. 

The marquis knit his brow for a moment, then sud- 
denly: 

“ Have you not prayed to God some that He would re- 
store me to my family?” 

“ Oh, always!” 

“ Well, madame, your petitions have been heard. It 
has seemed to me that a voice was calling me, and I have 
obeyed that voice,” 


MOisSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK’s AVILL. 


61 


And you are going to quit the court?” 

‘‘I come to establish myself at Grosbois,” interrupted 
the marquis, stifling a sigh. 

“ What happiness for me, our dear children, and all our 
dependents. Ah! monsieur, let me remain in this belief, 
leave me this joy!” 

‘‘ Madame, your satisfaction is a balm that cures all my 
wounds. But tell me, would you like to talk with me a 
little about our household affairs?” 

Do so — do so,” said the marchioness, pressing his 
hands. 

“ It seems to me that I saw some very mean-looking 
horses down there, as I entered our grounds. Are they 
yours?” 

They are mine, monsieur.” 

‘‘ Horses too old to be of any service.” 

Monsieur, those are the horses you gave me the day 
your son was born.” 

“ When I bought them they were four and a half years 
old; that was nine years ago, so the creatures are fourteen 
years old. Fy! such a team for my wife!” 

“ Ah, monsieur, when I go to mass they manage to pull 
me still.” 

‘‘ I saw three of them, it seems to me.” 

The fourth and liveliest one I have given to my son 
for his lessons.” 

‘‘ My son to learn to ride on a carriage-horse! Mar- 
chioness! marchioness! what sort of a cavalier will you 
make of him?” 

The marchioness cast down her eyes. 

“ And then you do not mean to say you are reduced to 
four horses? You have eight, I think, besides two saddle- 
horses.” 

‘‘Yes, monsieur; but since you have been away there 
have been no more hunts nor pleasure rides, so I thought 
that a saving of four horses, two grooms, and a sadd^le- 
room would give me six thousand livres a year at least.” 

“ Six thousand livres, marchioness,” murmured Mon- 
sieur de Chauvelin, discontentedly. 

“ It furnishes support to twelve families,” replied she. 

He took her hand. 

“Always good, always perfect. What you do upon 
earth is always inspired by God from on high. But the 


62 MOXSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’^S WILL. 

Marchioness de Chauvelin ought not to have to econo- 
mize.’’ 

She raised her head. 

“You will say that I spend a great deal,” added he. 
“ Yes, I do spend much money and you suffer for the 
want of it.” 

“ I did not say that, monsieur.” 

“ It is true, nevertheless, marchioness. Noble and gen- 
erous as you are, you should not have dismissed my people 
unless compelled by necessity. A groom dismissed is one 
pauper the more. You have lacked money; I’ll mention it 
to Bonbonne; but from this time you shall want it no 
more; what I have been accustomed to spend at court I’ll 
now spend at Grosbois; instead of supporting a dozen fami- 
lies, you shall support two hundred.” 

“ Monsieur!” 

“And, thank God, I hope that there will be grain 
enough left to feed a dozen good horses that I have, and 
which from to-morrow will come to occupy your stables. 
Did you not say something about reioairing the chateau?” 

“ The reception-rooms ought to be refurnished.” 

“ All my Paris furniture will come this week. I want 
to give two dinners every week. There will be hunting.” 

“ You know, monsieur, that I rather dread company,” 
said the marchioness, frightened at the thought of seeing 
again those uproarious friends from Versailles, whom she 
deemed the source of capital sins in her husband. 

“ You shall give the invitations yourself, marchioness. 
Now Bonbonne will give you the livres, and you will be so 
good as to blend in one the expenses of Paris and Grosbois.” 

The marchioness, wild with joy, tried to answer, and 
could not. She took her husband’s hands in her own, 
kissed them, and with tender glances tried to sound the 
very depths of his soul, and gave herself up to the enervat- 
ing influence of that warm atmosphere of pure love that 
penetrates all that it touches, and conveys life and comfort 
to the coldest extremities. 

“ Let us think of those children,” said he; “ how do 
you govern them?” 

“Very well. The abb6 is a man of sense, and is large- 
minded in his ideas. Would you like me to present him 
to you?” 


MOXSIEUR DE CHAUYELIN'S WILL. f)3 

Present the whole household to me. Yes, mar- 
chioness.’^ 

The marchioness gave a signal, and they saw coming up 
the shady avenue, whither he had accompanied the boys, 
the young tutor, each of whose hands rested upon the 
shoulder of a pupil. 

There wa^ in the step, in the gentle swaying of that 
young oak between two reeds, something of paternal sweet- 
ness that greatly pleased the marquis. 

“I have a piece of good news to tell you, abbe. Here 
is the marquis, the head of our house, who has come to 
stay with us.” 

Praised be God!” answered the abbe. “ But, alas! it 
is not possible that the king is dead?” 

‘‘ No, thank Heaven! But I have bidden farewell to 
court and the world. I am going to stay here with my 
children. I am tired of living only by wit and ambition. 
I want to let the aftections expand a little. Here I am 
near you to make a start. Abbe, are you satisfied with 
your pupils?” 

‘‘ As satisfied as it is possible to be, marquis.” 

So much the better. Make of them Christians like 
their mother, and honest men like their grandfather, 
and — ” 

‘‘ Men of genius, wit, and merit like their father,” said 
the abbe. ‘‘ I hope to attain to all that.” 

‘‘ You are a valuable man, then, abbe. And you, my 
old Bon bonne, are you always grumbling? When I was of 
their age you used to 'want to initiate me into business even 
then. I ought to have paid heed to you, and then I should 
not be so dependent upon your knowledge now.” 

The children had gone back to their dancing on the 
grass with all the careless gayety of their years; their fa- 
t^her, following their movements with tender emotion, 
murmured, after a momentary silence: 

Dear children! I’ll never leave you again.” 

Would that what you say may prove true, marquis!” 
echoed a grave and sonorous voice from behind him. 

Monsieur de Chauvelin turned around and found him- 
self opposite to a monk in a white gown, with a severe and 
calm countenance, who saluted him after the manner of 
his order. 


64 


^lONSIEUTi DE CHAUVELIK^S WILL. 


“ Who is that holy father?” asked he of the mar- 
chioness. 

‘‘ Father Delar — my confessor.” 

“Ah! your confessor,” repeated he, turning slightly 
pale. Then in a lower tone: “ I have need of a confessor, 
in fact, so the gentleman is welcome.” 

The monk, adroit, and used to the manner of the great, 
took care not to catch at this proposition; but he registered 
it in his memory. Apprised by tlie steward of the state of 
affairs some days since, he resolved to charge himself v;ith 
the negotiation, and not to let an opportunity escape which 
was as propitious for attending to the affairs of the Al- 
mighty as those of the marchioness and her children, per- 
haps. 

“ Might I presume to ask news of the king, marquis?” 
asked the monk. 

“ Why so, father?” 

“ The report has spread abroad that Louis XV. was 
soon going to give up to God an account of his reign. 
Those rumors are generally only the precursors of Provi- 
dence. His majesty will not live long, believe me.” 

“ Is that your belief, father?” asked Monsieur de Chau- 
velin, growing sadder and sadder. 

“ It were to be desired, then, that he should make 
amends for all the scandals of which he has been the 
theme, and do penance.” 

“ Monsieur,” said the Marquis de Chauvelin, with anima- 
tion, “ confessors ought to wait in silence until they are 
called for.” 

“ Death does not wait, monsieur; and as for me, I have 
long been awaiting a word from you, and it does not 
come.” 

“Me! Oh! my confession will be long; but it is not yet 
ripe.” 

“ Confession consists altogether in repentance, in regret 
for having sinned; and the greatest of all sins, as I have 
just said, is scandal.” 

“ Oh! scandal! everybody acids something to it. There 
is not one of us who might not furnish matter for evil- 
speaking. Heaven thinks not of punishing us for the mis- 
chief-making of others.” 

“ Heaven punishes disobedience to its laws. Heaven 


MONSIEUR BE CHAUYELIN’S WILL. 


C>5 


punishes presumption. Warnings are sent to us, and if we 
neglect them nothing can save us any more.’’ 

Monsieur de Chaurelin did not reply, and began to re- 
flect. The marchioness, seeing him engaged in conversation, 
discreetly retired, praying God with all her soul that it 
might bear fruit. After a long moment of silence, during 
which the monk was watching him. Monsieur de Chauvelin 
suddenly turned toward him, and said : 

“ Holy father, you are right. I repent of having been 
too,, long young, and I will confess to you, for I feel it, I 
feel it, that death is near.” 

‘‘ Death! You believe this, and yet you make no prepa- 
ration for the welfare of your soul or your heirs. You fear 
to die, and think not of making the will that is so indis- 
pensable in the present state of your affairs. I beg your 
pardon, marquis; my zeal and devotion to your illustrious 
house carry me too far, perhaps.” 

‘‘No; you are right again, father. However, reassure 
yourself; that will is made. I have nothing to do but 
sign it.” 

“ You fear to die, and you are not in a condition to ap- 
pear before God?” 

“ May He have mercy on me! I was born in the Chris- 
tian religion, and I want to die a Christian. Come to- 
morrow, pray, and we shall continue this interview that 
will restore me repose of spirit.” 

“ To-morrow! Why to-morrow? Death neither draws 
hack nor stops.” 

“ I have need to collect my thoughts. I can not so 
quickly forget the life that I have led. I regret it, per- 
haps. Thanks for your counsels, father; they will bear 
their fruit.” 

“ God grant it! But you know the axiom of the wise 
men: ‘ Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to- 
day.’ ” 

“ I owe you gratitude already. I was cast down, and 
you have raised me up; one can not do everything at once, 
father.” 

“ Oh, marquis! it takes but a minute to make of a guilty 
man a penitent; of a damned soul an elect one. If you 
would — ” 

“ It is well, it is well, father — to-morrow. Here is the 
dinner-bell ringing.” 

3 


^ilOKSIEUR DE CHAEVELIK'S WILL. 


ce 


He dismissed him with a wave of the hand, and plunged 
into a leafy avenue. The tutor approached Father Delar. 

“ What is the matter with the marquis? I do not recog- 
nize him any longer. He is anxious, gloomy, haggard, he 
who is ordinarily so gay.’’ 

“ He has a presentiment of his approaching end, and he 
thinks of mending his ways. It is a magnificent conver- 
sion, and will bring great honor to my monastery. Oh I if 
the king — ” 

‘^Ah! ah! appetite comes with eating, father, as it 
seems; nevertheless, I fear that your wishes in that respect 
are useless. His majesty is hard to persuade, and besides 
has those who minister to his spiritual necessities. They 
talk of Bishop de Senez as of a rough champion.” 

‘‘Oh! the king is not so lacking in faith as you pretend. 
.Remember his sickness at Metz, and the sending away of 
Madame de Chdteauroux.” 

“ Yes; but then Louis XV. was young, and there was 
no question of expelling Jeanne Vaubernier — two consid- 
erations that change the situation terribly. Lastly, you 
have time to think over it, my dear Monsieur Delar; mean- 
while, the dinner-bell has rung. The thing is not to keep 
the marquis waiting. Thank God he does not dine with 
us so often.” 

The dinner at which Father Delar and Abbe V ap- 

peared in time was indeed served up to father, mother, 
and children. Never had the marchioness appeared so 
gay; never had she taken so much pains to do the honors 
of her table. 

The cook had surpassed himself. The beautiful fish 
from the ponds, the fine poultry from the coops, the most 
delicious fruits from the conservatory and trellises, remind- 
ed the marquis of the delights of home when there is a 
feast to be gotten up for a beloved master. 

The valets, as proud as could be that they were to re- 
sume so illustrious a service, were seen to don their newest 
liveries, and watch the master’s eyes to see if they could 
gratify his least desire or prevent the smallest cause for an- 
noyance. 

But the marquis very soon lost that fine appetite of 
which he had boasted upon his arrival. The table seemed 
to him deserted; the silence observed out of joy and respect 
for him appeared to him a mournful silence. By degrees 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


67 


sadness encroached upon his heart and countenance; he let 
his hand drop listlessly near the plate that was still full, 
and he forgot the glasses in which sparkled the wine of Ai 
with the luster of diamonds, and the old wine of Burgundy 
with the glow of rubies, being thirty years old. 

From sadness the marquis sunk into the deepest despond- 
ency, each person following sympathetically the mournful 
tenor of his thoughts. 

A tear escaped suddenly from his eyes; it drew a sigh 
from the marchioness. He did not observe it. 

“ I have reflected,” said he all of a sudden to his wife. 

I wish to be buried, not at Boissy St. Leger, like my par- 
ents, but at Paris, in the Church of the Carmelites, on 
Maubert Square, with my ancestors. ” 

‘‘ What suggests that reflection, monsieur? We surely 
have plenty of time to think of that, I suppose,” said the 
marchioness, suffocated with grief. 

‘‘ Who knows? Let them call Bonbonne; let him be 
told to wait for me in my library; I want to work with 
him an hour. Father I)elar has shown me the necessity 
for this. You have an excellent confessor, madame, in 
that man.” 

I am happy that you approve of him, monsieur; you 
can address yourself to him in all confidence.” 

‘‘ I shall do so, too, and that to-morrow. If you will 
excuse me, madame. I’ll go upstairs.” 

The marchioness lifted her eyes to heaven and gave 
thanks in a mental prayer. She followed her husband 
with her eyes as he left the room with Bonbonne, and turn- 
ing to her bo3^s, she said to them: 

This evening, my children, ask God to put it into 
your father’s heart to lake up his abode with us altogether, 
to keep him in the same benevolent dispositions that he 
now manifests, and to grant him grace to put his resolu- 
tions in practice.” 

Once within his library, the marquis said: 

‘‘ Come, my old Bonbonne, let us work! let us work!” 

And with a feverish ardor he shook out all the papers, 
trying to classify and distinguish them. 

There! there!” said the old man; “since we are so 
well started on the right road, my dear master, let us not 
race on too fast. You know one loses time by making too 
much haste,” 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


t)8 


Time presses, Bonbonne. I tell you, time presses.’’ 

Come then.” 

‘‘ I tell you that he to whom God vouchsafes this joy of 
preparing himself for the last journey can never work too 
fast. Be quick, Bonbonne; to work!” 

Going on at that rate, with such heat, monsieur, you 
will get a pleurisy, congestion, or high fever, and in that 
way will have succeeded in proving your will to be just in 
time.” 

“ No more delay. AYhere are the statements of assets?” 

“ Here they are.” 

And those of indebtedness?” 

‘‘ Here.” 

Sixteen hundred thousand livres of deficit? The 
devil!” 

Two years of rigid economy will fill up that ditch.” 

‘‘ I have not two more years in which to economize.” 

‘‘Oh! oh! you would run me mad! What! with such 
health?” 

“ Did you not tell me that the notary had drawn up a 
very clever plan for a will, in which he assured to my sons- 
the whole of their property when they come of age?” 

“ Yes, monsieur, if you gave up for six years the fourth 
part of the revenue of their lands alone.” 

“ Let us see that plan.” 

“ Here it is.” 

“ My eyes are a little weak. Will you read it aloud?” 

Bonbonne set himself to read each of the articles. The 
marquis from time to time testified a lively satisfaction. 

“ The plan is a good one,” said he at last; “ so much 
the more as it leaves to Madame de Chauvelin three hun- 
dred thousand livres a year — double what she has now.” 

“ You approve of it, then?” 

“ Of every point.” 

“ I can then transcribe this document?” 

“ Transcribe it.” 

“ And then you will have to give it validity by setting to 
it your seal and signature.” 

“ Do it quick, Bonbonne, do it quick!” 

“ Why, you are no longer even reasonable! I have spent 
a half hour in reading that document to you, and it will 
require at least an hour for the recopying of it.” 


MOlfSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


69 


Ah I if you knew in what a hurry I am! Stop! Dic- 
tate to me, and I’ll write it all out with my own hand.” 

Not at all, monsieur, not at all; your eyes are all in- 
flamed now. If you should only keep on working a quar- 
ter of an hour longer you will have fever after the head- 
ache coming on.” 

“ What must I do during this hour that you say I shall 
have to wait?” 

Go out to walk, join the marchioness, and enjoy the 
pleasant air on the lawn, and then I am going to cut my 
pens and then look out paper. I’ll answer for it that I’ll 
get on faster by myself alone than three lawyers’ clerks 
put together.” 

The marquis obeyed with a sort of repugnance, and yet 
he felt dull and agitated. 

‘‘ Be calm now,” said Bonbonne to him; are you 
afraid of not having time to sign? One hour, I tell you. 
What the devil! marquis, you will surely live sixty-one min- 
utes longer.” 

“ You are right,” resumed the marquis; and he went 
down-stairs, where the marchioness was waiting for him. 

Seeing him calmer and his countenance more cheerful, 
she said: 

‘‘ Ah, well! have you worked well, monsieur?” 

“ Oh, yes, marchioness, yes. I’ve done good work, with 
which I hope you and your sons will be content.” 

So much the better. Your arm; let us take a walk. 
The conservatories are open; would you like to visit them?” 

“ Anything that you like, marchioness, anything.” 

‘‘ And you will sleep well after this walk. If you could 
realize the joy with which your valets de chambre sheeted 
your great bed.” 

“ Marchioness, I shall sleep as I have not done for ten 
years. I leap for joy only to think of it.” 

‘‘You think, do you, that you will not find it too dull 
here with us?” 

“No, marchioness, no.” 

“ And that you will get accustomed to our country peo- 
ple?” 

“Yes, without any trouble. And if the king — I repent 
of having been a little rude to him, peijiaps — if the king 
forgets me, all is well,” 


70 


MOXSIEUR DE CHAUVELIi^^’S WILL. 


The king! Ah, monsieur/’ said the marchioness, ten- 
derly, ‘‘ you sighed just now on speaking of his majesty.” 

I love the king, marchioness; but really believe — ” 

He did not finish. A sound of a whip and a horse’s bells 
cut short his speech. 

What is that?” said he. 

A courier, to whom they open the gates,” answered 
the marchioness. “ Can it be for you?” 

No; it is strange. A courier to whom all bow, and 
who is admitted to our private grounds can only come 
from — ” 

‘‘ From the king,” murmured the marchioness, turning 
pale. 

‘‘ From the king!” shouted the courier in a loud voice. 
‘‘ The king!” 

And Monsieur de Chauvelin rushed forward to meet that 
courier, who had already intrusted his letter to the major- 
domo. 

A letter from the king! Alas!” said the marchioness 
to Father Delar, whom the report of the arrival of this 
missive had brought out with all the rest. 

The marquis offered the courier wine in a silver goblet — 
an honor that was justified by the respect paid to royalty 
by every nobleman, even when represented by a valet. He 
opened this letter. It contained what follows, written by 
the monarch with his own hand : 

My Friej^d, — You have hardly been gone twenty-four 
hours, and yet it seems to me that I have not seen you for 
months. Old people who love each other ought not to be 
separated. Will they have time to meet together again? 
I am sad unto death. I need you. Come! Do not de- 
prive me of a friend under pretext of wanting to defend 
my crown. That is the surest way of attacking it, on the 
contrary; and so long as you shall hold it up by your pres- 
ence, I shall feel it to be stronger than ever. Should I 
find you by my couch to-morrow morning upon awaken- 
ing, it will be the signal for a happy. day. 

‘‘ Your very affectionate Louis.” 

“ The king recalls me,” said Chauvenn, deeply touched. 

I must set out instantly; he can not do without me. Let 
them put the horses to the carriage.” 


monsieur de chauvelin’s will. 


71 


Oh!’^ replied the marchioness, “ so soon after so many 
sweet promises.’^ 

“You shall hear from nie very soon, madame.^’ 

“ Marquis, my copy is done!’’ exclaimed Bonbonne, run- 
ning up from the distance. 

“ Well! well!” 

“ And there is nothing more to do but to read it over 
and sign it.” 

“ I have not time. Later.” 

“ Later! But remember what you said just now.” 

“ I know it — I know it.” 

“No more delay.” 

“ The king can not wait.” 

“ But you forget your children. You forget the fate of 
your family.” 

“ I forget nothing, Bonbonne; but I must be olf, and 
that instantly. My children, the future of my family. Ah! 
think of it, Bonbonne, that is all assured.” 

“ A signature — nothing but a signature.” 

“ See here, my old friend,” said the marquis, radiant 
with joy; “I am so bent on settling this affair correctly, 
that if I should die before I had signed it, I swear to you 
to come back here from the other world — and it is far — ex- 
pressly to append my signature. Be easy on that score 
now. Farewell!” 

And hurriedly embracing his wife and children, forget- 
ting all that was not the king and court, rejuvenated by 
twenty years, he sprung into his carriage that bore him 
away toward Paris. 

The marchioness and all her household, so happy awhile 
ago, remained near the gate, gloomy, abandoned, dumb 
from despair. 


IX. 

VENUS AND PSYCHE. 

The day after his message to Grosbois, the first word of 
Louis XV. was to ask for the Marquis de Chauvelin, and 
his first look a searching one to see if he were there. 

The marquis had arrived in the night, and was in place 
when the king left his bed. 

“ Well and good, ” said the king, “ here you are, mar- 
quis. Dear me! how long your absence did seem!” 


72 MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 

Sire, it is the first, and shall be the last one. If I leave 
you now it will be forever. But the king is very good to 
find my absence long. I only sta3^ed away from him 
twenty-four hours.” 

‘‘ Eeally, dear friend, in this case it is that devil of a pre- 
diction which rings in my ears; so that, not seeing you at 
your ordinary post, I fancied that you were dead, and, you 
dead, you understand — ” 

Perfectly, sire.” 

But don’t let ns say any more about that. You are 
here, and that is the essential thing. It is true that the 
countess bears us a little grudge — you because you said 
what you did; me for having recalled you after such an 
outrage; but pay no heed to that ill-humor; time heals 
everything, and the king will aid time.” 

“ Thanks, sire.” 

“ Come; what did you do during your exile?” 

“ Only think, sire, I have failed to be reconciled to 
Mother Church.” 

‘ ‘ I understand. You begin to repent of having sung the 
praises of the seven mortal sins.” 

“Oh! if I had only sung them!” 

‘ ^ My cousin De Conti was talking to me about them 
again yesterday, and he was carried away with them.” 

“ Sire, I was young then, and impromptus seemed 
easy to me. I was there at the L’ile Adam, alone with 
seven charming women. The Prince de Conti was out 
hunting; I stayed at the chateau and made verses upon 
them. Ah! that was a good, fine time, sire.” 

“ Marquis, do you take me for your confessor, and is 
that your repentance?” 

“ My confessor! Ah, yes, your majesty is right. I had 
just made an appointment for this morning with a priest 
of Crosbois.” 

“Oh! the poor man! What a chance he lost for learn- 
ing! Would you have told him everything, Chauvelin?” 

“ Absolutely everything.” 

“ Then the session would have been long.” 

“ It would indeed, sire. Besides my own sins, I have 
so many sins of other people upon my conscience — above 
all, I have so many — ” 

“ Of mine, haven’t you? Those, Chauvelin, I’ll dis- 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. ?3 

peiise with your avowing. People need only confess for 
themselves.’’ 

And yet, sire, sin is terribly epidemic at court. I 
have only just come, and already they have been telling 
me of a strange adventure.” 

An adventure, Ohauvelin? and to whose account have 
the^ put it — that adventure, I mean?” 

‘ And to whose account do they always put good advent- 
ures, sire?” 

‘‘ Why, of course, it must be to mine.” 

‘‘Or to that of — ” 

“ Or to that of the Countess du Barry, you mean?” 

“ You have rightly divined, sire.” 

“How! The Countess du Barry has sinned? Plague 
upon it! Tell me about it, Chauvelin.” 

“ I do not exactly say that the adventure is a sin in it- 
self; I say that it came into my mind when sins were re- 
ferred to.” 

“ Come, marquis, what is that adventure? Tell it to 
me directly.” 

“ Directly, sire?” 

“ Yes; you know kings do not like to wait.” 

“ Plague take it! Sire, it is grave.” 

“Whew! Could she have got into another contest 
with my little daughter-in-law?” 

“ Sire, I do not say no.” 

“Ah! The countess will end by quarreling with the 
dauphiness, and then, faith — ” 

“ Sire, I believe that at this minute the countess is in 
the heat of a quarrel.” 

“With the dauphiness?” 

“No; but with another little daughter-in-law of yours.” 

“ With the Countess de Provence?” 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ Well! Behold me in a fine predicament! Let us see, 
Chauvelin — ” 

“ Sire?” 

“ And it is the Countess de Provence who complains?” 

“ They say so.” 

“ Then the Count de Provence is going to make abomi- 
nable travesties upon that poor countess. She has to be 
on her guard; she will be scourged in good fashion.” 

“ Sire, it will simply be a just requital.” 


74 


MOKSIEUK DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


‘‘ Yes?’’ 

Picture to yourself Madame de Rosen — ” 

‘‘ That charming little brunette who is the Countess de 
Provence’s intimate friend?” 

‘‘Yes; at whom your majesty has been casting many 
glances for a month past.” 

“ Oh! they have scolded me enough about it in a certain 
place, marquis. Well?” 

“ Who has scolded you, sire?” 

“ Why, the countess, of course.” 

“Ah, well! Sire, the countess has scolded you — you? 
That is well; but on the other side she has done better than 
scold.” 

“ Explain yourself, marquis; you frighten me.” 

“ Sire, yoii may well be shocked. I say nothing to the 
contrary.” 

“ How? Is it BO grave?” 

“ Very grave.” 

“ Speak.” 

“ It seems that — ” 

“ What?” 

“ You see, sire, that it is harder to tell than it was to 
do.” 

“ Really, you alarm me, marquis. Up to this time, I 
thought that you were jesting. But if a really grave thing 
has been done — Come; let us talk seriously.” 

At that moment the Duke de Richelieu entered. 

“ News, sire!” said he, with a smile at once gracious 
and uneasy — gracious because he was bent on pleasing the 
monarch; uneasy because he was anxious to counteract the 
influence of that favorite recalled to Versailles after one 
day of exile. 

“ News? And whence comes that news, my dear duke?” 
asked the king. 

The king looked around him, and saw the Marquis de 
Chauvelin laughing in his sleeve. 

“ Your laugh is against the grain,” said he. 

“ Sire, the storm is going to burst upon us. I see that 
from the sad looks of Monsieur de Richelieu.” 

“ You are mistaken, marquis. I did announce news, to 
be sure; but I did not undertake to tell it.” 

“ How, then, am I to learn this news?” 

^ “A page of Madame de Provence is in your antecham- 


MONSIEUR OE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 75 

ber with a letter from his mistress. Let your majesty give 
his orders.’’ 

‘‘Oh! oh!” said the king, who would not have been 
sorry to put the whole blame upon Monsieur or Madame 
de Provence, whom he did not like; “ since when have the 
sons of France and their wives taken to writing to the king 
instead of presenting themselves at the king’s morning re- 
ception?” 

“ Sire, probably the letter gives your majesty the reason 
for this breach of etiquette.” 

“ Duke, take this letter and give it to me.” 

The duke bowed, went out, and returned a second after- 
ward with the letter in his hand. 

Then handing it to the king, he said: 

“ Sire, do not forget that I am the friend of Madame 
du Barry, and that I constitute myself her advocate in ad- 
vance.” 

The king looked at Eichelieu, opened the letter, and 
visibly frowned as he ran over its contents. 

“ Oh!” murmured he, “ for this time that is too strong; 
and you have undertaken a bad cause, duke. In truth, 
Madame du Barry is mad.” 

Then turning to the officers, he added: 

“ Let a messenger be sent instantly to Madame de Kosen 
from me; ask how she is, and say that I shall receive her 
as soon as I am dressed, before going to mass. Poor mar- 
chioness! Dear little woman!” 

Each one looked at the other. Was a new star rising 
on the horizon of favor? 

Nothing more possible, on the whole. The marchioness 
was a pretty young woman. Appointed lady of honor to 
Madame de Provence a year ago, she had become intimate 
with the favorite, and visited her unceremoniously in her 
rooms, where the king had often seen her. But upon the 
princess, who had taken exceptions at this intimacy, expos- 
tulating, she had suddenly broken off relations with her, 
at which Madame du Barry had taken great offense. 

That was what the (iourt knew about it. 

This letter, the contents of which nobody knew, had had 
a serious effect upon the king. He appeared absorbed in 
thought during the remainder of his bed-chamber audience, 
hardly dropped a word to his gossips, hurried up the pro- 
ceedings, and dismissed his visitors sooner than usual, after 


70 


MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELTN’S WILL. 


having enjoined it upon Monsieur de Chauvelin not to be 
out of the way. 

The ceremony of the king’s levee having terminated, 
everybody retired, and as his majesty was informed that 
Madame de Rosen was in attendance, he gave orders for 
her to be introduced. 

Madame de Rosen made lier appearance in most pathetic 
style. She was dissolved in tears, and fell on her knees 
before the king. 

The king raised her up. 

“ Pardon me, sire,” said she, for having shielded my- 
self under august influence in seeking to gain access to 
your majesty; but indeed I was so desperate — ” 

‘‘ Oh, I pardon you with all my heart, madame, and I 
owe gratitude to my grandson for having had a door opened 
to you, which henceforth stays wide open to you. But let 
us come down to the fact — to the principal thing.” 

The marchioness cast down her eyes. 

‘‘ I am pressed for time, madame,” continued the king; 
“ they are waiting for me to hold mass. Is what you 
write me strictly true? Did the countess allow herself to 
maltreat you?” 

‘‘ Oh! you see how I blush for shame, sire. I come to 
demand justice of the king. Never has a woman of rank 
been treated so abominably. ” 

‘‘ What! really?” asked the king, smiling in spite of 
himself. Treated like a disobedient child in every par- 
ticular?” 

‘‘ Yes, sire, by four maids, in her presence, in her bou- 
doir,” answered the young woman, lowering her eyes. 

‘‘ Plague upon it!” resumed the king, in whom that de- 
tail gave rise to a crowd of ideas. The countess did not 
brag of her project. Then with the eyes of a satyr: ‘‘ And 
how was that brought to pass? Tell me, marchioness.” 

Sire,” resumed the poor woman, blushing more and 
more, “ she invited me to breakfast. I excused myself on 
the plea of my duties to her royal highness requiring me to 
be in place at eight o’clock. She sent me word back that 
she would not detain me long; and, in fact, sire, I came 
from there a half hour ago.” 

‘‘ You may rest easy, madame. I shall have an explana- 
tion with the countess, and justice shall be done you; but 
out of regard for your own interest, I enjoin it upon you 


MONSIEVR BE CHAUYELIN’S WILL. 


77 


not to noise this adventure abroad. Above all, do not let 
your husband learn of it; husbands are devilishly squeam- 
ish about such things.” 

“Oh! the king must know that so far as 1 am con- 
cerned there’ll be no talking; but my enemy, the count- 
ess, I am very sure that she has already boasted of what 
she has done to her most intimate friends, and to-morrow 
the whole court will kiiOAv about it. Oh, dear! dear! how 
miserable lam!” 

And the marchioness hid her face in her hands at the 
risk of washing away her rouge with her tears. 

“ Be comforted, marchioness,” said the king. “ The 
<3ourt could not have a prettier whip than you. And if 
they talk of it, it will be through envy, as once upon a time 
in Olympus they spoke of the same adventure happening 
to Psyche. I know some among our stilf-necked ones who 
would not be so easily consoled as you can console yourself; 
you, marchioness, you have nothing to lose by it.” 

The marchioness made a bow and blushed more still, if 
that were possible. 

The king beheld that blush and devoured those tears. 

“ Come,” said he, “ return home, and wipe those pretty 
eyes; this evening at our card-party weTl arrange all that. 
It is I who make you the promise.” 

And with that gallantry and good form characteristic of 
his race, the king escorted the young woman back to the 
door, in doing which he had to pass by the crowd of cour- 
tiers, who were as much puzzled and surprised as could be. 

The Duke d’Ayen, captain of the body-guard on duty, 
drew near the king and bowed before him in silence, wait- 
ing for his orders. 

“ To mass! to mass! Duke d’Ayen, now that I have 
performed my duty as confessor,” said the king. 

“ So pretty a penitent can only have committed pretty 
sins, sire.” 

“ Alas! poor child, it is not her own that she expiates,” 
went on the king, going along the grand corridor leading 
to the chapel. 

The Duke d’Ayen followed one step in the rear, near 
enough to hear and reply, but without being on a line with 
him, as etiquette prescribed. 

“ One would be happy to be her accomplice, even in a 
crime — a venial crime, be it understood, sire.” 


78 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


“ Her crime is that of the countess. 

Oh! as for those, the king knows them all.'' 

Undoubtedly they calumniate that good countess. 
She is extravagant — mad even — as upon the occasion in 
question, for which I shall reprimand her; but she has an 
excellent heart. One need not tell me any harm of her 
— I would not believe it. To be sure, I well know that I 
am not her first lover, and that I succeed Radix de St. Foy 
in her good graces.’’ 

“ Yes, sire,” replied the duke, with his customary mal- 
ice, hidden under the most exquisite manners, “ as your 
majesty succeeded Pharamond.” 

The king, in spite of all his wit, was not able to cope 
■with this doughty antagonist unless by getting angry. He 
felt that this would make him ridiculous, hence he pretend- 
ed not to comjirehend. He made haste to address a word 
to a knight of St. Louis, whom he met on his way. Louis 
XV. was sweet-tempered and accommodating; he allowed 
his familiar friends many liberties, and, provided that they 
amused him, he made light of the rest. The Duke 
d’Ayen, above all, had the privilege of saying whatever he 
chose. Madame du Barry, all potverful as she was, had 
never dreamed of contending with him. His name, liis 
position, and his wit, in the first place, seemed to put him 
above attack. 

During mass the king had wanderings of mind. He was 
thinking of the tempest that would be aroused by this last 
freak of Madame du Barry if it should come to the ears of 
the dauphin. This prince had just the evening before re- 
buked the countess, who, against his will, had had a 
nephew of hers — Vicomte du Barry — appointed an equerry 
of his household. 

‘‘ Do not let him come near me,” the dauphin had said, 

or I’ll have him driven away by my men.” 

Certainly these dispositions did not promise indulgence 
for the coarse jest in which the countess had indulged her- 
self. Louis XV. then left the chapel, feeling himself to be 
in a quandary. Before repairing to the council-chamber, 
he called at the apartments of the dauphiness. He found 
her in full dress, with a superb diamond admirably mount- 
ed adorning her brow. 

“ That is a magnificent jewel you wear, madame,” said 
the king. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


79 


Do you think so, sire? Does not your majesty recog- 
nize it?’’ 

To be sure, since your majesty gave orders for it to be 
brought to me.” 

“ I do not know what you mean?” 

“ And yet it is a fact very easy to explain. Yesterday a 
jeweler came to the palace at Versailles with this jewel set 
around with, fleiirs-de-lys and ornamented by the crown of 
France, ordered by your majesty. Since God has taken 
the queen away, I alone had the right, it was thought, to 
wear this ornament. It is to me, then, that he has offered 
it — doubtless by your order, and according to your inten- 
tion.” 

The king flushed and made no reply. 

“Here again is a bad augury,” thought he. “The 
countess had little to do to give me new trouble with her 
silly tale of the marchioness. Will you come to our card- 
party this evening, madame?” continued he aloud. 

“ If your majesty so orders it. ” 

“ Order you! My daughter, I beg you to come; you will 
give me pleasure thereby.” 

The dauphiness bowed coldly. The king saw that he 
was not going to succeed in propitiating her. He made a 
pretext of the Council, and went out. 

“ My children do not love me,” said he to the Duke 
d’Ayen, who had not left him. 

“ The king is in error. I can assure your majesty that 
you are at least as much beloved by them as they are by 
you.” 

Louis XV. understood the innuendo, but did not show it. 
He had made a resolve, for his part. He had come near 
exiling the Duke d’Ayen ten times a day, and the king, 
after the depression he had experienced upon losing Mon- 
sieur de Chauvelin, understood better than ever before how 
indispensable to him was the presence of his leadmg cour- 
tiers. 

“ Pshaw!” said he, “ they will find that they tickle me 
in vain; they shall not fret me. This manner of thing will 
last as long as I do, and my successor may get out of it as 
best he can.” 

Strange heedlessness, for which the unhappy -Louis XVI. 
was so fatally to pay the penalty. 


80 


MOI^SIEUK DE CHAUVELIJ^’S WILL. 


X. 

THE king’s game. 

On entering the house of the countess, whom he was in- 
tending to reprimand, the king was received with a lower- 
ing brow, behind which he felt to be smothering a mine of 
secret wrath all ready to explode. 

Louis XV. was weak. He dreaded scenes, whether they 
came from his daughters, grandsons, daughters-in-law, or 
his mistress; and yet like all men placed between their 
mistress and their family, he was continually exposing him- 
self to them. 

This day he wanted to prevent the struggle that he saw 
impending by giving himself an auxiliary. 

Also, after having cast upon the countess that glance 
which had sufficed him for consulting the barometer of her 
good humor, he gave a look all around him. 

Where is Chauvelin?” asked he. 

Monsieur de Ohauvelin, sire?” said the countess. 

‘‘ Yes — Monsieur de Ohauvelin.” 

‘‘ But it seems to me, and you know better than any- 
body else, that I am not the one who ought to be asked for 
news of Monsieur de Ohauvelin, sire.” 

And why so?” 

‘‘ Because he is no friend of mine, and, not being one 
of my friends, it is plain that you should look for him else- 
where than in my house.” 

“ I had told him to come and wait for me at your 
house.” 

‘‘Ah! well, he has dispensed with obeying the king’s 
orders; and, faith, he will have done better to disobey you 
than to come, as he did the last time, to insult me.” 

“ It is well — it is well; I want you to be reconciled,” 
said the king. 

“ With Monsieur de Ohauvelin?” asked the countess. 

“ With everybody, zounds!” 

Then turning toward the countess’s sister, who was mak- 
ing a show of setting some grotesque figures in order upon 
a pier- table : 

“ Chon,” said he. 

“ Sire?” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. ' 81 

Come here, my daughter.’’ 

Chon drew near the king. 

‘‘Be so good little sister, as to give the order that 
Chauvelin be sent for immediately.” 

Chon bowed, and left the room to obey the king. 

Madame du Barry tossed her head, and turned her back 
upon his majesty. 

“ Pray, what is there in that to vex you, countess?” 
asked the king. 

“ Oh, I understand,” replied she, “that Monsieur de 
Chauvelin is in the full enjoyment of your favor, and that 
you could not do without him, he is so desirous of pleasing 
you and respects so much those whom you love.” 

Louis felt that the storm was coming. He wanted to 
cut olf the water-spout by a cannon-shot. 

“ Chavelin is not the only one lacking in respect for me 
and what belongs to me.” 

“ Oh, 1 know it! For that matter,” exclaimed Madame 
du Barry, “ your Parisians, your Parliament, even your 
courtiers, without counting those whom I shall not name, 
are all lacking in respect to the king, and that emulously, 
at pleasure vying with one another in the lengths that they 
go.” 

The king looked at the impertinent young woman with 
a feeling that was not devoid of compassion. 

“ Do you know, countess,” said he, “ that I am not im- 
mortal, and that you play a game which may land you in 
the Bastile or drive you from this kingdom as soon as I 
shall have closed my eyes?” 

“ Nonsense!” said the countess. 

“Oh! do not laugh; it is as I tell you.” 

“ Indeed, sire, and how is that?” 

“ In two words I am going to broach the question.” 

“ I await the onslaught, sire.” 

“ What is this story about the Marchioness de Rosen, and 
what unwarrantable liberty is this that you have taken with 
the poor woman? Do you forget that she has the honor 
of belonging to the household of the Countess de Provence?” 

“ I, sire? No, indeed!” 

“ Well, then, answer me. What is this about your hav- 
ing allowed yourself to inflict upon her, the Marchioness 
de Rosen, punishment such as is given only to children?” 

“ I, sire?” 


83 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


Yes, you,” said the king, grown impatient. 

“Ah! that is good!” exclaimed the countess. “ I did 
not expect to be blamed for having executed the orders of 
your majesty.” 

“ My orders!” 

“ Certainly. Will the king deign to call to mind his 
reply to me when I complained to him of the marchioness’s 
impoliteness?” 

“ Faith! No. I do not recollect now.” 

“Well, the king said to me: ‘What would you have, 
countess; the marchioness is a child that ousfht to be 
w jd.’ ” 



“ What? Zounds! That was no reason for doing it,” 
cried the king, blushing in spite of himself; for he remem- 
bered having said precisely the words that the marchioness 
had just quoted to him. 

“Well,” said the marchioness, “ the least desires of your 
majesty being laws for his devoted servant, she made haste 
to execute this one as all others.” 

The king could not help laughing at the imperturbable 
seriousness of the countess. 

“ It is I, then, who am the guilty one?” asked he. 

“ Most assuredly, sire.” 

“ Then it is for me to expiate the fault.” 

“ Apparently.” 

“ Be it so. Ill that case, countess, you will invite the 
marchioness to supper, in my name, and you will put 
under her napkin the colonel’s commission that her hus- 
band has been soliciting for the past six months, and which 
I should certainly not have given him so soon but for this 
circumstance. In this manner the injury will be repaired. ” 

“ This is very well — that is to say, so far as the mar- 
chioness’s feelings are concerned. And now for mine.” 

“ Now yours?” 

“ Yes; who will repair them?” 

“ What injury has been done to you, pray?” 

“Oh! that is charming — play the astonished!” 

“ I do not play it, my dear; I am very frankly and seri- 
ously so.” 


“ You just come from a call upon the dauphiness, do 
you not?” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUYELIX’S WILL. 


83 


“ Then, you know very well the trick that she has 
played me?’’ 

“No; upon my word. Say!” 

“Well, yesterday my jeweler brought us at the same 
time — to her a stream, and to myself a tiara of diamonds.” 

“ After?” 

“After?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, after? After having received her stream, she 
asked to see my tiara.” 

“Ah! ah!”' 

“ And as my tiara jleurs-de-lys for its setting, she 
said: ‘ You have made a mistake, my dear Monsieur Boeh- 
mer. This tiara of diamonds is not for the countess, but 
for me; and the proof is that here are three lilies of France, 
that since the queen’s death I alone have the right to 
wear.’ ” 

“ So that—” 

“ So that the jeweler, intimidated, did not dare to resist 
the order given him by the dauphiness to leave the dia- 
mond tiara, and hastened to tell me that my diadem had 
been waylaid upon the road.” 

“ Well, countess, what would you have me do about it?” 

“Do! Why, I want you to have my diadem restored to 
me.” 

“ Have your diadem restored?” 

“Certainly.” 

“ By the dauphiness? Y^ou are mad, my dear.” 

“ How! I mad?” 

“ Yes. I would rather give you another one.” 

“ Ah, good! I have only to count upon that.” 

“ Upon the faith of a gentleman, I promise it to you.” 

“ Good! And I shall have it in a year — in six months 
at the earliest? How funny it is!” 

“ Madame, let that delay be a warning to you.” 

“ A warning to me? And in what respect?” 

“ In respect to being less ambitious in the future.” 

“ Ambitious! I?” 

“To be sure. You well know what Monsieur de 
Chauvelin said the other day.” 

“Oh! but that was your Chauvelin, who only talks non- 
sense.” 


84 MONSIEUR DE CHAUYELTN’S WILL. 

Lastly, though, who had authorized you to wear the 
armorial bearings of France?’’ 

“ Come, then, who authorized me? You yourself.” 

‘‘ Yes, you. The pet dog that you gave me the other 
clay wore them upon its collar; why, then, should I not 
wear them upon my head? But I know where that idea 
comes from. I have been told.” 

What more have you been told? Come!” 

“ Why, your projects, of course.” 

Well, countess, tell me my projects. Upon my hon- 
or, it would give me pleasure to know them.” 

Will you deny that there is a proposition to marry you 
to the Princesse de Lamballe, and that Monieur de Chauve- 
lin and all the clique of the dauphin and dauphiness are 
urging you to the marriage?” 

“ Madame,” replied the king, severely, “ I will not 
deny but that there may be some truth in what you say, 
and I’ll even add that I might do worse. You know it 
better than I do, countess; you who have had me sounded 
as to another marriage.” 

That word closed the countess’s mouth, who seated her- 
self in an ill-humor at the other end of the room, and broke 
.two pieces of bric-a-brac. 

‘‘ Ah! Chauvelin was right,” murmured the king. 

The crown is ill fitted for Cupid’s hands.” 

There was a moment of pouting silence, during which 
Mademoiselle du Barry returned. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ Monsieur de Chauvelin is nowhere 
to be found. They think he is shut up in his own room; 
but it was in vain that I went myself to ring and appeal to 
him at his own door, for he refused to reply.” 

‘‘Oh! oh!” exclahned the king. “Has any accident 
happened to him? Is he sick? Quick! quick! let the door 
be broken open!” 

“ Oh, no, sire, he is not sick,” sharply spoke up the 
countess, “ for on leaving the Prince de Soubise and 
brother John in the parlor of the Bull’s Eye, he announced 
that he would be at work all day on urgent matters, but 
that he would not fail to join the king’s card-party in the 
evening.” 

The king profited by this concession on the part of the 
eountess, which opened a sort of armistice. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 85 

“ Perhaps he is writing his confession for the edification 
of his Oamaldule/’ 

Then turning to the countess, he said: 

“ By the way, countess, do you know that medicine of 
Bordeu’s works wonders? Do you know I mean to take 
no other? A fig for Bonnard and Lamartiniere, with all 
their dieting! He is going to rejuvenate me, upon my 
word!” 

“ Pshaw! sire,” said Chon, “ why is your majesty for- 
ever talking about old age? Dear me! Your majesty is 
no older than everybody else, are you?” 

‘‘ Well, that is good!” exclaimed the king. ‘‘ You are 
like that great scamp D’Aumont, to whom I was com- 
plaining the other day of having no teeth, and who an- 
swered me, displaying a villainous set of grinders: ‘ Well, 
sire, who is it that has teeth ’?” 

For my part,” said the countess, “ I forewarn you 
that I’ll bite you until the blood comes if you continue 
thus to sacrifice me to everybody else.” 

And she approached, taking her seat again near the 
king, showing him a row of pearls in which it was impossi- 
ble to see a menace. 

And the king, braving the bite, touched with his lips the 
beautiful rosy lips of the countess, who made a sign to 
Chon. Chon picked up the broken pieces of china. 

“ Well!” said she, “ all that falls into the ditch is for 
the soldier.” 

And casting back a last look upon the king and her sis- 
ter, she said in a very low tone: 

‘‘ Decidedly, I believe that Borden is a great man.” 

And she went out, leaving her sister in a fair way to- 
ward reconciliation. 

The king’s game began at six o’clock. Monsieur de ^ 
Chauvelin had kept his promise, and was one of the first 
persons there. The countess, on her side, came in full 
dress, because of the presence of the dauphiness, who, it 
was known, would be present. 

The marquis met the countess, and they greeted each 
other with the blandest of smiles. 

“ Bless me. Monsieur de Chauvelin,” said the countess, 
with one of those enigmatical smiles so much practiced at 
court, “ how red you are! One would say that you were 


86 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


about to have an attack of apoplexy. Marquis! marquis! 
consult Bordeu! There’s no safety outside of Bordeur’ 

Then turning to the king with one of her rarely bewitch- 
ing smiles, she said : 

“ Rather, ask the king.” 

Monsieur de Chauvelin bowed. 

“ I shall certainly not fail to do it, madame.” 

“ And you will perform the duty of a faithful subject. 
You must care for your health, my dear marquis, since 
you are only to precede by two months — ” 

On the contrary, I could wish that it were I who were 
to precede you,” said the king, “ for you would be sure of 
a hundred years of life, Chauvelin. Then I can only re- 
peat the countess’s advice to you — take Bordeu, my friend, 
take Bordeu.” 

“ Sire, whatever be the hour marked for my death — and 
God alone knows .the death-hour of each man — I have 
promised the king to die at his feet.” 

“ Fy, Chauvelin! People make promises that are not 
kept. Rather ask these ladies; but if you are as sad as 
that, my dear friend, it is we who will die of grief simply 
from looking at you. Come, Chauvelin; are we to play 
this evening?” 

“ As your majesty chooses.” 

‘‘ Will you win from me a game of ombre?’ 

“ 1 am at the king’s service.” 

They seated themselves at the tables. 

Monsieur de Chauvelin and the king sat facing each 
other at a particular table. 

“ There, Chauvelin, attention,” said the king; “ have 
your answer ready. If you are sick, I never felt better in 
my life. I am in such fine spirits, too; guard your money 
well. I tell you, I have to pay Rotiers for a'mirror and 
Boehmer for a diamond tiara. ” 

Madame du Barry bit her lips. 

But instead of replying, the marquis painfully rose in 
his chair. 

Sire, it is very warm,” murmured he. 

That is so,” responded the king, who, instead of being 
angered, as would have been the case with Louis XIV. at 
this breach of the laws of etiquette, amiably covered up the 
blunder. “ Yes, Chauvelin, it is very warm, thank God! 
for in the month of April our evenings are apt to be cool.” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 87 

^ The marquis attempted to smile, and with difficulty 
picked up the cards. 

The king resumed: 

Come; you are the ombre, Chauvelin.^’ 

Yes, sire,’’ stammered the marquis. 

And he bowed his head. 

Have you a fine hand? Let’s see. Ah! As my an- 
cestor, Henry IV., said, ‘ how cross you are this even- 
ing! ’ ” 

Then, having looked at his own cards: 

‘‘ Ah! dear friend, I do believe that this time you are 
done for.” 

The marquis made a violent effort to speak, and turned 
so red that the king stopped in alarm. 

But what is the matter with you, Chauvelin?” asked 
the king. ‘‘ Come, answer!” 

Monsieur de Chauvelin stretched out his hands, let his 
cards escape, uttered a sigh, and fell with his face on the 
carpet. 

My God!” cried the king. 

‘‘A fit of apoplexy!” murmured some courtiers who 
had pressed forward. 

They raised the marquis up, but he did not stir. 

‘‘ Take it away! Take that away!” said the king, with 
horror. “Take it away!” 

And leaving the table, with a nervous chill upon him, 
he linked his arm in that of the Countess du Barry, who 
dragged him off to her own house without his once turn- 
ing his head to look at that friend from whom he could not 
be separated the evening before. 

The king having gone, none thought any more of the 
marquis, deprived of feeling. 

His body remained some time overturned upon the arm- 
chair — for they had lifted him up to see if he were dead, 
and had let him fall backward. 

That corpse produced a singular effect, left all alone in 
that deserted salon, in the midst of chandeliers all ablaze, 
and flowers that were wasting their perfume. 

At the end of an instant a man appeared on the thresh- 
old of the solitary salon, looked around the apartment, saw 
the marquis lying prone on the arm-chair, approached 
him, placed his hand upon his heart, and in a dry, clear 


88 MONSIEUR I)E CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

voice, at the very moment that the big clock struck seven, 

said: , t i i i 

He has passed away. A beautiful death, I declare! 

A beautiful death!’’ 

That man was Doctor Lamartiniere. 


XL 

THE VISION. 

The morning of that same day Father Delar had arrived 
early at Grosbois, with the intention of saying mass at the 
chapel, and of not allowing the good dispositions to cool 
which the marquis had manifested the evening before. But 
then Madame de Chauvelin told him, with tears in her 
eyes, all her fears for the salvation of the neophyte, already 
so compromised, who had escaped them at the first word 
of friendship sent to him by the king. 

She kept her confessor to dinner, in order to hold a long 
talk with him, and find in his wise counsels the courage of 
which she had need after this new deception. 

Madame de Chauvelin and Father Delar were w^alking 
until quite a late hour in the afternoon, upon rising from 
table, and had seats brought to the edge of the pretty lake, 
in order to breathe there the first breezes of spring after 
quite a warm day. 

Eeverend father,” said the marquise, ‘‘ in spite of all 
that you say to me which is reassuring, that departure of 
Monsieur de Chauvelin makes me very uneasy. I know 
what an attachment he has to court life. I know that the 
king has entire dominion, not only over his mind, but yet 
more over his heart, and his majesty’s conduct is so far 
from being well regulated — I think that it is not a sin, 
father, to speak thus. Alas! the scandal is only too pub- 
lic!” 

I assure you, madame, that the marquis has received 
a salutary impression; it is a first offense; time and Provi- 
dence will do the rest. I was speaking of it this morning 
to our reverend prior; he has ordered prayers to be said in 
the convent; you too pray, my daughter, you who are most 
interested in this great work; let your children pray; let 
us all pray. To this end I have offered the holy sacrifice 
of the mass in the chapel of the chateau, and shall do so 
every morning.” 


MOi^SIEtR DE CHAUYELIN'S WILL. 


80 


In all the twenty years that I have been united to Mon^ 
sieur de Chauvelin, I have never let an hour pass without 
asking God to touch his heart. Until now the Lord has 
not heard my prayers. I have lived alone, most of the 
time in grief and tears, as you know yourself, father. I 
have groaned in solitude over errors that I could not com- 
bat. Apparently God did not deem me pure enough to 
render me victorious. More suffering was needed where- 
with to purchase this grace. I will suffer. The will of 
God be done!” 

Meanwhile, behind the marquise and Father Delar the 
abbe was in company with the children, whose amusements 
he shared, being almost as young as they — that is to say, 
eighteen years old. 

“ Brother,” said the elder boy, do you know what is 
the fashionable game at court now?” 

Yes, to be sure; father told me yesterday at dinner; 
it is ombre.” 

“ Well, let us play ombre.” 

‘‘ Impossible. In the first place, Ave have no cards, and 
then Ave do not know how to play it.” 

“ There is one who is the ombre.” * 

‘‘ And the other?” 

Bless me! Why, the other is afraid, I suppose, and 
then he loses.” 

“ Brother,” said the elder boy, “ don’t let’s speak o£ 
cards. You knoAv that our mother does not like it, and 
claims that cards bring misfortune.” 

At the same moment Madame de Chauvelin arose from 
her seat. 

Mother is going away into the park,” answered the 
younger, following her Avith his eyes, “ and consequently 
she will not see us. Besides, our tutor, who is Avith us, 
Avould Avarn us against it if it were wrong.” 

‘‘ It is always wrong,” said the tutor, to cause one’s 
mother pain.” 

“Oh! but my father plays at court,” replied the child, 
Avith that tenacious logic, which, like all Aveaknesses, 
catches hold of any prop that is a little reassuring. “We 
can play, then, since father plays.” 

The abbe could think of no ansAver to that, and the boy 
went on: 


* Shadow. 


90 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 


Stop! There is mother bidding adieu to Father Delar, 
wliom she has accompanied as far as the front gate. He 
is going away. Let us wait. Just as soon as Father Delar 
is gone, mamma will go back to her oratory. We’ll return 
to the chateau behind her. We’ll ask for cards, and we’Jl 
play.” 

The boys followed their mother in the gathering twi- 
light until her figure was lost in the distance. 

It was one of those charming evenings that precede the 
heat of May; the trees, still without leaves, gave promise 
of coming foliage by their swollen and downy buds. Some 
more forward, such as the chestnut and linden-trees, began 
to burst their sheathes and bring to light the vernal treas- 
ures that they inclosed. 

The air was calm, and began to be peopled by those in- 
sects that are born with spring and disappear with autumn. 
They were seen sporting by the thousand in the last rays of 
the setting sun, which made of the river a broad ribbon of 
gold and purple, while to the east — that is to say, toward 
that part of the park whither Madame de Chauvelin had 
directed her steps, all objects began to blend together in 
that beautiful bluish tint wdiich belongs only to certain 
privileged epochs of the year. 

There was an intense calmness mingled with an infinite 
splendor in all nature. 

In the midst of this serenity the castle clock struck 
seven, and its tones vibrated long in the evening breeze. 

Suddenly the marquise, who was bidding farewell to the 
priest, uttered a great cry. 

“ What is the matter?” asked the reverend father, com- 
ing back; “ and wdiat hurts you, madame?” 

“No — nothing! nothing! Oh! oh!” and the marquise 
turned pale visibly. 

“ But you cried out! You certainly felt some sort of 
pain! Why, at this very moment you are pale. What is 
the matter? In the name of Heaven, what is the matter 
with you?” 

“Impossible! My eyes deceive me!” 

“ What do you see? Say, say, madame!” 

“No, nothing.” 

The priest insisted. 

“ Nothing, nothing, I tell you,” repeated Madame de 
Chauvelin. “Nothing.” 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIX’S WILL. 


91 


And her voice died away upon her lips, and her gaze re- 
mained fixed, while her hand, white as an ivory hand, was 
slowly raised to indicate an object that the monk saw not. 

If you please, madame,’’ insisted the monk, “ tell me 
what you see?^’ 

“Oh! 1 see nothing. No, no; it is folly!’’ exclaimed 
Madame de Chauvelin, “ and yet — But look! Look 
there!” 

“ Where?” 

“ There! there! Do you see?” 

“ I see nothing.” 

“ You see nothing there — there?” 

“ Absolutely nothing; but you, madame; you say what 
you see!” 

“Oh! I see — I see — But no, it is impossible.” 

“Tell.” 

“I see Monsieur de Chauvelin in his court dress, but 
pale, and walking with slow steps; he has passed tWe! 
there!” 

“Heavens!” 

“ Without seeing me, do you understand? Or, if he did 
see me, without speaking to me — which is yet more 
stiange.” 

“ And at this moment are you seeing him all the time?” 

“ All the time.” 

And the marquise’s finger and eyes indicated the direc- 
tion that the marquis followed, remaining invisible still to 
Father Delar. 

“ And where is he going, madame?” 

“ In the direction of the chateau. There he goes, near 
the big oak! There, he grazes the bench! Stop! stop! 
There he is going near to the children. He turns and goes 
behind the wall. He disappears! Oh! if the children are 
still where they were it is impossible for them to miss see- 
ing him.” 

At the same instant a cry rang out that made Ma- 
dame de Chauvelin shudder. 

It was the two children "who had uttered that cry. 

It had resounded so piercingly sad in the darkness that 
the marquise came near falling to the ground. 

Father Delar held her up in his arms. 

“ Do you hear?” murmured she. “ Do you hear?” 

Yes,” replied Father Delar; “ some one gave a cry.” 


92 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


Almost immediately tlie marquise saw, or, rather, heard 
her two boys running toward her. Their rapid steps, as 
they ran along panting, sounded upon the gravel walk. 

‘‘ Mother! mother! have }Ou seen?’’ cried the younger. 

“ Oh, ma’am, do not heed them!” said the abbe, run- 
ning behind them, all out of breath from trying to over- 
take them, so rapid had been their flight. 

Well, my children, what is it?” asked Madame de 
diauvelin. 

The two boys, however, made ho answer, but only 
pressed close up to her side. 

Come,” said she, “ what has happened? Speak!’ 

The two children looked at each other. 

‘‘You tell,” said the elder to the younger. 

“ No, you tell.” 

“Ah! well, mamma, can it be that you did not see as 
well as we?” 

“ Do you hear?” exclaimed the marquise, whose arms 
were uplifted; “ do you hear, father?” 

And with her icy hands she pressed the. monk’s trem- 
bling fingers. 

“ Seen! Seen whom?” asked he, with a shudder. 

“ Why, father,” said the younger of the children. 
“ Did not you and mother see him? He came that way, 
though, and must have passed very near you. 

“Oh! what happiness!” said the elder boy, clapping his 
hands. “ Papa has come back!” 

Madame de Chauvelin turned to the abbe. 

“ Madame,” said he to her, comprehending her ques- 
tioning glance, “ I can assure you that these little gentle- 
men are mistaken when they claim to have seen the mar- 
quis. I was near them, and declare that no person — ” . 

“And I, sir,” said the elder, “I tell you that I saw 
papa as plainly as I now see you.” 

“ Fy, Abbe V ! fy! How ugly it is to lie!” said the 

younger boy. 

“ It is strange,” said Father Delar. 

The marquise shook her head. 

“ They have seen nothing, ma’am; positively nothing,” 
repeated the tutor. 

“ Wait,” said the marquise. 

Then addressing herself to her two sons with that sweet 


MONSIEUE DE CIIAUVELIK'S WILL. 9-j 

maternal accent which must please the great Father of us 
all, said: 

“ My children, do you say that you have seen your fa- 
ther?” 

‘‘ Yes, mamma,” answered the two children in unison. 

“ How was he dressed?” 

‘‘ He had on his red court suit, his blue ribbon, a white 
vest embroidered in gold, velvet pantaloons like his coat, 
and silk stockings, buckled shoes, and his sword at his 
side.” 

And while the elder boy described in detail his father’s 
costume, the younger one nodded acquiescence. 

And while the younger boy testified to his accuracy, Ma- 
dame de Chauvelin, with a hand more and more frigid, 
pressed the monk’s hand. It was thus that she too had 
seen her husband pass. 

And was there nothing peculiar about your father — 
tell me?” 

‘‘ He was very pale,” said the elder. 

‘‘Oh! yes, very pale,” said the younger; “ one would 
have said a dead man.” 

Everybody shuddered — mother, tutor, confessor — so 
great was the terror expressed by the child’s words. 

“ Where was he going?” asked the marquise in a voice 
that she tried in vain to make firm. 

“ In the direction of the chateau,” said the elder boy. 

Said the younger: “ I turned around as I was running, 
and saw him going up the front steps.” 

“ Do you hear? Do you hear?” murmured the mother 
in the monk’s ear. 

“ Yes, madame, I hear; but I own that I do not under- 
stand. How could Monsieur de Chauvelin have passed 
through the front gate on foot without stopping in front of 
you? Again, how could he have passed his sons without 
also stopping? Lastly, how could he have entered the 
chateau without any of the servants seeing him, or asking 
for any one?” 

“ You are right,” said the abbe, “ and all that is strik- 
ingly true.” 

“ Besides,” continued Father Delar, “ the proof can 
easily be obtained.” 

“ We are going to see about it,” cried the two children, 
preparing to run to the house. 


94 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 


And I, too/’ said the abbe. 

‘‘ And I, too,” murmured the marchioness. 

Madame,” replied the Camaldule monk, “ here you 
are all agitated and white from affright; and supposing that 
it should be Monsieur de Ohauvelin — and I own that it 
may be he — is there anything to be frightened at?” 

Father,” said the marquise, looking into the monk’s 
face, ‘‘ if he had come thus mysteriously and unattended, 
do you not think that the event would be very strange?” 

“ That is why we are all mistaken, madame. That is 
why we must believe that undoubtedly some stranger has 
introduced himself, with evil design very likely. 

‘‘ But an evil-doer, no matter how malicious he may 
be,” said the abbe, “■ has a body. You would have seen 
him, and I, too, father, which is exactly what is strange 
about it. The marchioness and these young gentlemen 
saw, and it was only we who did not see.” 

‘‘ Never mind,” resumed the monk; “ in either case it 
would be better for madame and her sons to retire to the 
orangery, while we go to the chateau; let us call out the 
men, and ascertain what has happened. Go, madame; 

go!” 

The marchioness was powerless. She obeyed mechanic- 
ally, and retired into the orangery with her two sons, with- 
out having for a single instant lost sight of the chateau 
windows. 

Then falling on her knees, she said: 

Let us pray without ceasing, my sons, for there is a 
soul beseeching me to pray at this very minute.” 

Meanwhile, the monk and abbe had kept on their way to 
the chateau; but having come in view of the front door, 
they had stopped and opened a consultation as to whether 
they had not better go first to the servants’ quarters and 
collect a force for searching the buildings, as at this hour 
they would find the men together at their supper. 

This proposition had been made by the ever-prudent 
monk, and the abbe was on the point of acceding to it, 
when they saw a small door open and Bonbonne appear. 
The old steward came running toward them as fast as his 
great age would allow. He was pale, tremulous, gesticu- 
lating, and talking to himself. 

What is the matter?” asked the abbe, going a few 
steps to meet him. 


MOXSIEUR BE CHAUVELIX^S "WILL. 95 

OhI Good Lord! Good Lord!’^ exclaimed Bonbonne. 

‘‘ What has happened to you?’^ continued the priest. 

“ It has happened to me to have a terrible vision.’’ 

The monk and abbe exchanged looks. 

“ A vision!” repeated the monk. 

“ Come, now, that is impossible,” said the abbe. 

‘‘ It is so, I tell you,” persisted Bonbonne. 

“ And what sort of a vision is it. Tell us.” 

“Yes, what have you seen?” 

“ I saw — I do not yet know exactly what; but, in short, 
I saw — ” 

“ Explain yourself, then.” 

“ Well, I was in my ordinary work-room, below the 
marquis’s big library, and communicating with it, you 
know, by a private staircase. I was again examining into 
the titles, to be sure that we had forgotten nothing in the 
writing out of the document which was so necessary to the 
future fortunes of the family. The clock had just struck 
seven. Suddenly I heard walking in the room above which 
I had myself shut up yesterday behind Monsieur the Mar- 
quis, and the key to which I had in my pocket. I listened. 
There were many steps. I listened again. Those steps 
sounded above my head. There was some one upstairs. 
That was not all; I heard the drawers of Monsieur de 
Chauvelin’s desk opening. I heard the arm-chair move 
that stood in front of the desk, and that, without any pre- 
caution which struck me as more and more extraordinary. 
My first idea was that thieves had penetrated into the cha- 
teau. But either those thieves were very imprudent or 
very confident about what they were doing. Then what 
should I do? Call the servants? They were in their own 
rooms at the other end of the house. While I was going 
for them, the thieves would have time to make good their 
escape. I took my double-barreled gun. I went up by the 
little staircase that leads from my room to the marquis’s 
library. I got there on tiptoe. As I stealthily crept up 
the last steps, I pricked up my ears more anxiously than 
ever. I not only heard a continuous moving about, but 
groaning, rattling in the throat, and finally inarticulate 
sounds that penetrated to the bottom of my heart, for I 
must confess that the nearer I came the more did I seem 
to hear and recognize the voice of the marquis.” 

“ Strange!” exclaimed the abb6. 


90 :^roxsiEuii be citauvelik^s will. 

Yes, yes; strange!” echoed the monk. 

Go on. Bonbon ne, go on!” 

“ Finally,” continued the steward, drawing near to his 
two questioners, as if to seek for a refuge near them, 
‘‘ finally I looked through the key-hole, and saw a great 
light in the room, although it was dark and the shutters 
were closed, and closed by myself.” 

After that?” 

The noise continued. There were sounds like the 
death-rattle. I had not a drop of blood in my veins. And 
yet I wanted to see to the end. I made an effort. I put 
my eye again at the key-hole, and distinguished wax can- 
dles lighted around a casket.” 

“Oh! you are deranged, my dear Monsieur Bonbonne,” 
said the monk, shivering in spite of himself. 

“ I saw it; I saw it, father.” 

“But you must have seen wrong,” said the abbe. 

“ I tell you, abbe, that I saw the thing as I see you. I 
tell you that I have lost neither my presence of mind nor 
my good sense.” 

“ And yet you ran away in a fright.” 

“ Not at all. On the contrary, I remained praying God 
and my patron saint to give me strength. But suddenly a 
great fracas was heard, the wax lights were put out, and 
all given over to darkness once more. It was not until 
then that I left, and came up with you. Now we are 
united. Here is the library key. You are churchmen, 
and consequently exempt from superstitious terrors. Will 
you come with me? We will find out for ourselves tho 
state of affairs.” 

“ Let us see,” said the priest. 

“ Let us see,” repeated the abbe. 

And all three entered the chateau, not by the small 
door, however, through which Bonbonne had come out, but 
through the front door that had admitted the marquis. 

On passing under the vestibule, before a great family 
clock surrounded by the De Chauvelin arms, the steward 
held aloft the wax candle which he had just lighted. 

“ Ah!” said he, “ there is something strange; some one 
must have meddled with that clock and put it out of 
order.’’ 

“ Why do you think so?” 

“ Because I have seen it here in the chdteau ever since I 


MOKSIErR DE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 97 

was a child, and during all this time it has been invaria- 
bly right. 

Welir^ 

Well! Do you not see that it has stopped?^’ 

‘‘ At seven o’clock!’^ said the monk. 

“ At seven o’clock!’’ repeated the abbe. 

And once more the two exchanged looks. 

‘‘ At last,” murmured the abbe. 

The monk muttered a few words that resembled a 
prayer. 

Then they mounted the grand staircase, traversed the 
apartments of the marquis, closed and deserted. Those 
immense rooms, illumined by the trembling light of a sin- 
gle torch that the steward was bearing, were solemn and 
awe-inspiring. 

On reaching the library door their hearts palpitated wild- 
ly; they stopped and listened. 

‘‘ Do you hear?” asked the steward. 

‘‘ Perfectly,” said the abbe. 

What?” asked the monk. 

‘‘How! Yoii do not hear that horrible sound like the 
groan of some one in mortal agony?” 

“We do,” said together the two companions of the 
steward. 

“ I was not mistaken, then,” resumed he. 

Give me the key,” said Father Delar, making the 
sign of the cross. “We are men, honest men — Christians; 
we ought not to be afraid of anything.” 

He opened the door, and whatever confidence the man 
of God had in his Lord, his hand trembled as he introduced 
the key into the lock. The door opened; all three stopped 
upon the threshold. . 

The chamber was empty. 

Slowly they penetrated into the immense cabinet, sur- 
rounded by books and pictures. Everything was in its place 
save the marquis’s own portrait, which had broken the nail 
that had held it up, had become detached from the wall, 
and fallen to the ground, the canvas being pierced in the 
place where was the head. 

The abbe pointed out the portrait to the steward, and 
drew a breath of relief. 

“ Behold the cause of your terror-,” said he, 

4 


98 


MOITSIEUR PE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


Yes, that accounts for the noise in part,’^ said the 
steward; “but those moans that we heard just now, did 
the portrait utter them?’’ 

“ The fact is,” said the monk, “ that we did hear 
groans.” 

“ And upon that table?” suddenly exclaimed Bonbonne. 

“ What — what is there upon that table?” asked the 
abbe. 

“ That hardly extinguished taper,” said Bonbonne, 
“ that wax candle which is still smoking; and touch that 
stick of sealing-wax which is not even cold yet.” 

“It is true,” said the two witnesses of this almost 
miraculous incident. 

“ And,” continued the steward, “ that seal* which the 
marquis carried on his watch-chain, and with which the 
envelope addressed to his notary is sealed with the seal, 
however not pressed down so as to close it.” 

The abbe dropped into a chair more dead than alive. 
He had not the strength to flee. 

The monk remained standing; and without visible fright, 
like a man detached from the things of the world, he tried 
to penetrate this mystery of the cause of which he was 
ignorant, whose effect he saw, but whose end he did not 
comprehend. 

Meanwhile, the steward, to whom devotion to his mas- 
ter’s family lent courage, turned over one after the other 
the pages of the will that he had examined with his master 
just the day before. 

Arrived at the last one, a cold sweat came out upon his 
forehead. 

“ The will is signed!” murmured he. 

The abbe bounded upon his seat, the monk bent over 
tlie table, and the steward looked first at one and then at 
the other. 

A terrible moment of silence ensued between these three 
men, and the bravest of the three felt his hair stand out 
upon his head. 

Finally all three cast their eyes again upon the will. 

A 'codicil had been added, of which the ink was not yet 
dry. 

It was conceived in these terms: 


* Cachet volant, as the French cafl such a one. 


MOXSIEUT? DE CHAUVELIJs^S WILL. - 99 

“ My will is that my body be interred at the Cliurcli of 
the Carmelites on Maubert Square, near my ancestors. 

‘‘ Done at the Chateau de Grosbois on April 27th, 1774, 
at seven o’clock in the evening. 

‘‘ Signed Chauvelin.” 

The two signatures and the codicil were traced with a 
band less firm than that in the body of the will, but never- 
theless perfectly legible. 

A de profundis, gentlemen,” said the steward, “ for 
it is evident that the marquis is dead.” 

The three men piously fell upon their knees and recited 
together the funeral prayer; then after a few minutes of 
solemn reflection they rose to their feet. 

“ My poor master,” said Eonbonue, “ bad given me his 
word to come back and sign this will, and he has kept it. 
God have pity upon his soul!” 

The steward shut up the will in its envelope, and taking 
up his torch again, gave a sign to his companions to go out. 

Then aloud : 

“We have nothing more to do here,” said he; “ let us 
go in search of the widow and orphans.” 

“You are not going to give that packet to the mar- 
quise?” said the abbe. “ Do no such thing, I pray you, 
in the name of Heaven!” 

“ Be easy,” said the steward; “ this packet shall only 
leave my hands to pass into those of the notary. My mas- 
ter chose me for his testamentary executor, since he has 
permitted me to see what I did see, and hear what I did 
hear. I shall not rest until his last wishes have been 
carried out, when I shall go to join him. Eyes that have 
been the witnesses of such things ought to close quickly.” 

And even as he thus spoke, Bonbonne, being the last to 
leave the library, had shut to its door. All three had de- 
scended the staircase, bad cast a timid glance upon the 
clock, whose hands had stopped at seven o’clock, and clear- 
ing the front doorsteps, they set out for the orangery, where 
the marquise and her two children were awaiting them. 

All three were still praying, the mother on her knees, 
her two sons standing near to her. 

“ Weil!” cried she, rising precipitately when she saw the 
three men. “ Well!” 

“ Continue your prayer, madame,” said Father Delar; 


100 MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

“ you were not mistaken. By a special favor — doubtless 
granted to your piety — God has permitted the soul of Mon- 
sieur de Chauvelin to come and bid us farewell.’’ 

“ Oh! my father!” exclaimed the marchioness, lifting 
lier clasped hands to heaven; “ you see well that I was not 
deceived.” 

And falling upon her knees, she resumed her interrupt- 
ed prayer, signing to the children to imitate her example. 

Two hours afterward a sound of horse’s hoofs reverber- 
ated in the court-yard, making Madame de Chauvelin raise 
her head — she being seated between the two beds of her 
sleeping children. 

A voice was heard on the stairs crying : 

“ A courier from the king!” 

At the same moment a footman entered and handed the 
marchioness a long letter sealed with black. 

It was the official tidings that the marquis had died at 
seven o’clock in the evening, taking part in a game with 
the king. 


XII. 

THE DEATH OE LOUIS XV. 

After Monsieur de Chauvelin’s death, the king was 
rarely seen to smile. In every step that he took it would 
have seemed that the specter of the marquis walked by his 
side. Carriage-riding alone seemed somewhat to divert his 
mind. Excursions were multitudinous. The king went 
from Rambouillet to Compeigne, from Compeigne to Fon- 
tainebleau, from Fontainebleau to Versailles — to Paris 
never. The king had a horror of Paris, after his revolt 
Avith regard to blood baths. 

But all these fine residences, instead of distracting his 
mind, took him back to the past, the past to memories, 
memories to reflection. Madame du Barry alone could 
divert him from these sad, bitter, and deep reflections, 
and verily it was pitiable to see the trouble that young and 
pretty creature took to warm up, not the body, but the 
heart of the old man. 

Meanwhile, society was disintegrating like the monarchy. 
To the philosophical infiltrations of Voltaire, D’Alembert, 
and Diderot, succeeded Beaumarchais’ showers of scandal. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 101 

Beaumarchais published his famous “ Memorial ’’ against 
Counselor Goezmann, and that magistrate, a member of 
the Maupeon tribunal, did not dare to take his seat in pub- 
lic again. 

Beaumarchais had the “ Barber of Seville ’’ repeated, 
and they were already talking of the hardihood that was 
going to bring upon the scene the philosopher Figaro. 

An adventure of Monsieur de Fronsac had caused a scan- 
dal. Two adventures of the Marquis de Sade had excited 
horror. 

Society had become utterly corrupt. 

All these anecdotes were very shameful, very impure, 
but they were the only ones that amused the king. Mon- 
sieur de Sar tines made a journal of them — that was another 
of Madame du Barry’s bright ideas — a journal that his 
majesty read every morning in his bed. That journal was 
made up in the Parisian houses of ill-fame, and specially 
in that of the famous Gourdan. 

One day the king learned through this journal that Mon- 
sieur de Lorry, Bishop of Tarbes, had had the effrontery, 
the day before, to return to Paris, bringing with him, in 
his uncovered carriage, Madame Gourdan and two of her 
boarders. This was going it a little too strong. The king 
had the grand almoner apprised of it, who summoned the 
bishop to appear before him. 

Fortunately, it chanced that all was explained to the 
greatest glory of the prelate’s virtue and charity. On re- 
t^urning from Versailles, the Bishop of Tarbes saw three 
women coming on foot along the highway, their carriage 
evidently having broken down. Moved by pity for their 
discomfiture, he offered them a place in his carriage. 
Gourdan found the proposal pleasing, and accepted. 

His friends pretended not to credit this simplicity on the 
part of the prelate, and one or another would say to him: 
“ How! you do not know Gourdan? Keally, now, that is 
incredible!” 

In the midst of all this; the famous musical war between 
the admirers of Gluck and Piccini was declared, and the 
court divided into two parties. 

The dauphiness, young, poetical, of a musical tempera- 
ment, and a pupil of Gluck, thought our operas nothing 
but a collection of ariettes more or less graceful. On see- 
ing the tragedies of Bacine acted, she conceived the idea of 


102 MOisBIEUK DE CHAUVELIK'S WILL. 

sending “ Iphigenia in Aulis to her master, and of invit- 
ing him to pour the floods of his music over the harmo- 
nious verses of Racine. At the end of six months the music 
was composed, and Gluck himself brought his score to 
Paris. 

Once arrived there, Gluck became the favorite of the 
dauphiness, and had admission at all hours into her draw- 
ing-room. 

One must get accustomed to everything, and above all 
to the grandiose. At its first production, Gluck’s music 
did not produce all the effect that it should have done. 
Empty heads and callous hearts do not care to be made to 
think; noise suffices them; thought is a weariness, sound a 
distraction. 

The society of the old regime preferred Italian music, 
sonorous bell-ringing, to the melodious organ. 

Madame du Barry, out of opposition, and because the 
dauphiness had brought German music to the front, Ma- 
dame du Barry took the side of Italian music, and sent to 
Piccini for his Uhretti. Piccini sent some compositions, 
and the young and old society divided into two camps. 

This was because ideas altogether new were springing up 
in the midst of that ancient French society like unknown 
flowers that force their way up between the disjointed flag- 
stones of a gloomy court-yard, between the moss-covered 
stones of an ancient chateau. 

These ideas were English; gardens were labyrinthine 
walks winding among trees, lawns, baskets of flowers, pots 
of grass; there were cottages, morning walks without pow- 
der or rouge, with a simple, broad-brimmed straw hat, the 
only adornment of which was a bunch of blue corn-flowers 
or daisies; there were walkers guiding a fiery steed, fol- 
lowed by jockeys in black caps, round jackets, and leath- 
ern knee-breeches; there were four-wheeled phaetons which 
were all the rage; princesses dressed like shepherdesses, 
actresses gotten up like queens. There were Duthe, 
Guimard, Sophie Arnould, the Prairie, and Cleophile cov- 
ering themselves with diamonds, while the dauphiness, the 
Princess de Lamballe, Mesdames de Polignac, De Langeac, 
and D’Adhemar, who only asked to cover themselves with 
flowers. 

And at sight of all this new society advancing to meet 
the unknown, Louis XV. bowed his head more and more. 


INfONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 103 

Iq vain the giddy countess whirled around him, buzzing 
like a bee, light as a butterfly, resplendent as a humming- 
bird; only occasionally did the king lift up his heavy brow, 
upon which the seal of death was every instant becoming 
more visibly stamped. 

This was because time was gliding by; because they had 
entered upon the second month since Monsieur de Chauve- 
lin’s death; because they had come to May 3d, and be- 
cause on the 28th of the month it would be exactly two 
months since the marquis had died. 

Then, as if everything conspired to add force to the 
mournful prophecy, the Abbe de Beauvais had preached 
at court, and in his sermon on the necessity of preparation 
for death and the danger of final impenitence, he had ex- 
claimed : 

“ And yet forty days, sire, and Nineveh will be de- 
stroyed.’’ 

So that when he had thought of Monsieur de Chauvelin, 
the king was thinking of Monsieur de Beauvais, so that 
when he had said to the Duke d’Ayen: 

“ It will be two months, on May 23d, since Chauvelin 
died,” he turned then to the Duke de Richelieu and mur- 
mured : ‘ ‘ Forty days was what that diabolical Abb^ de 
Beauvais said, was it not?” 

And Louis XV. added: 

I could wish that these forty days were past!” 

That was not all; the almanac of Lieges, in regard to 
the month of April, had said: 

In the month of April, a lady, who is one of the great- 
est favorites, will play her last part.” 

So that Madame du Barry sung the chorus to the king’s 
lamentations, and said of the month of April what he said 
about the forty days — that is to say: 

“ I could wish with all my heart that this cursed month 
of April were past.” 

In this cursed month of April, which frightened Ma- 
dame du Barry so much, and during these forty days that 
were the king’s passion, bad signs were multiplied. The 
embassador from Genoa, whom the king saw frequently, 
was struck by sudden death. The Abbe de Laville, com- 
ing to his levee to thank him for the place of director of 
foreign atfairs, which he had just given to him, fell at his 


104 MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 

feet, seized with apoplexy in his presence. Lastly, the king 
being in the chase, a thunder-bolt struck near him. 

All this rendered him more and more gloomy. 

They had hoped something from the return of spring, 
that Nature, which in the month of May shakes off its 
shroud, that earth grown young again, those trees now 
donning their spring-time robes, that air which is peopled 
with living atoms, those fiery breaths that pass with the 
breezes and seem like souls seeking for bodies; all that 
might restore some life to that inert matter, some move- 
ment to that worn-out machine. 

Toward the middle of April, Lebel saw at his father’s 
house a miller’s daughter whose singular beauty struck 
him. He thought that this was a morsel which might 
arouse some appetite in the king, and spoke to him of her 
with enthusiasm. Louis XV. languidly consented to this 
proffer of distraction. 

In general, before reaching the king, the young girls 
whom Louis XV. was to honor or dishonor by his royal 
favors were inspected by doctors, then by Lebel, and last- 
ly came the king. 

This time the young girl was so fresh and pretty that all 
these precautions were neglected, and even had they been 
taken it would certainly have been difficult for the most 
skillful physician to have discerned that she had taken the 
small-pox a few hours before. 

The king had already had that disease in his youth; but 
two days after his connection with that young girl, it mani- 
fested itself for a second time. 

A malignant fever capped the climax. 

On April 29th the first eruption made its appearance, 
and the Archbishop of Paris, Christopher de Beaumont, 
hastened to Versailles. 

This time the situation was strange. The administra- 
tion of the sacraments, if their necessity was perceived, 
could only take place “ after the expulsion of the concu- 
bine,” and this concubine, who belonged to the Jesuitical 
party, of which Christopher de Beaumont was the chief; 
this concubine, as the archbishop himself said, through the 
overthrow of Minister Choiseul and the Parliament, had 
rendered such great services to religion that it was im- 
possible to dishonor her canonically. 

The leaders of that party, besides Monsieur de Beaumont 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIIf^S WILL. 105 

and Madame du Barry, were the Duke d’Aiguillon, the 
Duke de Richelieu, the Duke de Fronsac, Meupeon, and 
Terray. 

All were struck down by the same blow that expelled 
Madame du Barry. They had no motive then for declar- 
ing themselves against her. 

The party of Monsieur de Choiseul, on the contrary, 
which was everywhere, even in the king’s bed-chamber, 
denianded the expulsion of the favorite and a prompt con- 
fession. This was a curious spectacle, since it was the 
party of philosophers, Jansenists, and atheists that were 
urging the king to confess; while it was the Archbishop of 
Paris, the monks and devotees, who desired the king to re- 
fuse to confess. 

Such was the strange state of affairs when on May 1st, 
at half past eleven o’clock in the morning, the archbishop 
presented himself at the palace, in order to visit the sick 
king. 

At all events, on learning of the archbishop’s arrival, 
poor Madame du Barry fled. 

It was the Duke de Richelieu who went to meet the pre- 
late, being ignorant as yet of his intentions. 

‘‘ Monseigneur,” said the duke, ‘‘ I adjure you not to 
frighten the king by that theological proposition which has 
killed so many ill persons. But if you are curious to hear 
a recital of pretty, jolly sins, sit you down there, and I will 
confess to you instead of the king; and I’ll tell you tales 
such as you have never heard since you have been Arch- 
bishop of Paris. Now, if my proposal does not suit you, 
if you are positively bent upon having the king confess to 
you, and are determined to renew at Versailles the scenes 
of the Bishop of Soissons at Metz, if you want to dismiss 
Madame du Barry with parade, you will insure the tri- 
umph of the Duke de Choiseul, your cruelest enemy, from 
whom Madame du Barry has done so much to deliver you, 
and you will persecute your friend for the proflt of your 
foe. Yes, monseigneur, your friend, and so much your 
friend, that yesterday she again said to me: ‘ Let the arch- 
bishop forbear to disturb us, and he shall have his cardi- 
nal’s hat; it is I who take it upon myself, and I’ll be re- 
sponsible for it.’ ” 

The archbishop had let Monsieur de Richelieu talk on, 
for, although of the same opinion as he, at bottom it was 


106 


MOlfSIEUR DE CHAUYELIN’S WILL. 


proper that he should have the air of being persuaded. 
Fortunately, the Duke d’Auniont, Madame Adelaide, and 
the Bishop de Senlis added their persuasions to those of the 
• marshal, and gave the prelate arms against himself. He 
seemed to yield, and promising to say nothing, entered the 
presence-chamber of the king, to whom he said nothing at 
all about confession. This so satisfied the august patient 
that he immediately had Madame du Barry recalled, whose 
beautiful hands he kissed, weeping for joy. 

On the next day. May 2d, the king found himself a little 
better. Instead of Lamartiniere, his physician in ordinary, 
Madame du Barry had got him to call in her two doc- 
tors, Lorry and Bordeu. These two doctors had recom- 
mended themselves, in the first place, by concealing from 
the king the nature of his disease, by preserving silence as 
regarded his true condition, and above all by putting far 
from him the idea that he was sick enough to have re- 
course to the priests. 

This improvement in the health of the king permitted 
the countess to resume momentarily her free demeanor, 
her ordinary way of talking, and pretty, winning manners. 
But at the very minute when by dint of wit and spirit she 
had succeeded in making the patient smile, Lamartiniere, 
who had not been excluded from the palace, appeared on 
the threshold of the door, and, offended by the preference 
which had been given to Lorry and Bordeu above himself, 
walked straight up to the king, felt his pulse, and shook 
his head. 

The king had submitted, regarding him, however, with 
terror. This terror was still increased when he saw the 
discouraging sign made by Lamartiniere. 

Well, Lamartiniere?’^ asked the king. 

“ Well, sire, if my colleagues have not told you that the 
case is grave, they are fools or liars.” 

‘‘ What do you think that I have, Lamartiniere?” asked 
the king. 

‘‘ Why, sire, it is not hard to see. Your majesty has 
the small-pox.” 

‘‘ And you say that you have no hope, my friend?” 

“ I did not say that, sire. A doctor never despairs. I 
only say that if your majesty is not a very Christian king 
in something more than the name, it is time to reflect.” 

‘‘You are right,” said the king. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


107 


Then calling Madame du Barry: 

My love/^ said he to her, you hear that I have the 
small -pox, and my sickness is the more dangerous, in the 
first place, because of my age, and in the next because of 
my other diseases. Lamartiniere has just reminded me 
that I am the very Christian king and the oldest son of the 
Church, my love. Perhaps it is going to be necessary for 
us to separate. I want to avoid a scene like that at Metz. 
Inform the Duke d’Aiguillon of what I am telling you, 
that he may arrange for us to separate quietly, if my dis- 
ease grows worse.’’ 

While the king was saying this, the whole party of the 
Duke de Choiseul were beginning to murmur aloud, accus- 
ing the archbishop of faulty complaisance, and saying that 
to spare Madame du Barry they were going to allow the 
king to die without the sacraments. 

These accusations came to the ears of Monsieur de Beau- 
mont, who, to put a stop to them, resolved to go and take 
up his abode at Versailles, in the house of the Lazarites, to 
impose upon the public thereby, and profit by the moment 
favorable for performing religious ceremonies, really so as 
not to sacrifice Madame du Barry until the king should be 
in an utterly desperate condition. 

It was the 3d of May when the archbishop returned to 
Versailles. Arrived there, he waited. 

During this time, scandalous scenes were going on 
around the king. The Cardinal de la Eoche-Aymon was 
of the same mind as the Archbishop of Paris, and desired 
that all should be done without clamor; but it was not so 
with the Bishop of Carcassonne, who played the zealot, re- 
newing the scenes of Metz, and crying aloud: “ That the 
last sacraments must be administered to the king; that the 
concubine must be expelled; that the canons of the Church 
must be executed; and that the king ought to give an ex- 
ample to Europe and Christian France that he had scan- 
dalized.” 

‘‘And by what right do you give me this advice?” ex- 
claimed the Cardinal de la Eoche-Aymon impatiently. 

The bishop loosened the pastoral cross from his neck and 
put it almost under the prelate’s nose. 

“By the right that this cross gives me,” said he. 
“ Learn, monseigneur, to respect this right, and do not let 


108 MONSIEUR I)E CHAUVELIK'S WILL. 

your king die without the sacraments of the Churchy whose 
oldest son he is.’’ 

All this went on in the presence of Monsieur d’Aiguillon. 
He comprehended all the scandal that would result from 
such a discussion if it became public. 

He entered the king’s chamber. 

‘‘ Well, duke,” said the king to him, “ have you carried 
out my orders?” 

“With regard to Madame du Barry, sire?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I wanted to wait until your majesty should have re- 
peated them. I shall never be in a hurry to separate the 
king from persons who love him.” 

“ Thanks, duke, but it must be done. Take the poor 
countess and convey her privately to your country-seat De 
Rueil; I shall be grateful to Madame d’Aiguillon for the 
care that she will take of her.” 

In spite of this very formal request. Monsieur d’Aiguillon 
would not still hurry the departure of the favorite, and hid 
her in the chateau, appointing the next day for her depart- 
ure. This announcement calmed somewhat the ecclesias- 
tical requirement. 

For that matter, the Duke d’Aiguillon appeared to have 
been justified in detaining Madame du Barry at Versailles, 
for during the fourth day of the month the king called for 
her again with such urgency that the duke admitted that 
she was still there. 

“ Have her to come, then. Have her to come here!” 
cried the king. 

Madame du Barry returned then for a last time. 

The countess left the room bathed in tears. The poor 
woman, who was kind-hearted, giddy, amiable, and easy- 
tempered, loved Louis XV. as one loves a father. 

Madame d’Aiguillon got Madame du Barry into a car- 
riage with her eldest step-daughter, and carried her to 
Rueil, there to await the end. 

Hardly was she outside the palace grounds before the 
king was again calling for her. 

“ She has gone,” they answered him. 

“ Gone!” repeated the king; “ then it is time for me to 
be gone too. Order prayers to be made to Saint Gene- 
vieve.” 

Monsieur de la Vrilliere immediately wrote to Parliament 


MONSIEUK DE rHArVELTX'S WILL. 100 

that, ill extreme cases, had the right to have the ancient 
relic opened or closed. 

The days of the 5th and 6th passed without any talk of 
confession, the viaticum or extreme unction. The Curate 
of Versailles presented himself with the end in view of pre- 
paring the king for this holy ordinance; but he met the 
Jluke de Fronsac, who gave him his word as a gentleman 
that he would throw him out of the window at the first 
sentence that he should repeat. 

“ If I am not killed by the fall, I shall come straight in 
again, because it is my light.’’ 

But at three o’clock on the morning of the 7th, it was 
the king who imperiously demanded the Abbe Mandoux, a 
poor and unsophisticated priest, a good sort of an ecclesias- 
tic whom they had given to him for a confessor, and who 
was blind. 

His confession lasted seventeen minutes. 

The confession over, the dukes De la Vrilliere and 
d’Aiguillon wanted to postpone the viaticum ; but Lamar- 
tiniere — the special enemy of Madame du Barry, who had 
insinuated her own medical men into attendance upon the 
king — drawing near to Louis XV., said: 

“ Sire, I have seen your majesty in many difficult situa- 
tions, hut never have I admired you as to-day. If you 
listen to me you will finish directly what has been so well 
begun. ’ ’ 

The king then had Mandoux called, who gave him abso- 
lution. 

As to that telling reparation which was solemnly to an- 
nihilate Madame du Barry, there was no talk of it. The 
grand almoner and the archbishop had together drawn up 
the formula which was proclaimed in presence of the viati- 
cum. 

‘‘ Although the king has to render account of his con- 
duct to God only, he declares that he repents of having 
scandalized his subjects, and that he only desires to live 
longer for the support of religion and the happiness of his 
people.” 

The royal family, augmented by the presence of Madame 
Louise, who had come out of her convent in order to min- 
ister to her father, went to receive the holy communion at 
the bottom of the staircase. 

While the king received the sacraments, the dauphin— 


110 


MOXSIEUK PE rTTArVELTX'S WILL 


who had been kept away from tlie king because he had not 
had the small-pox — wrote to Abbe Terray: 

“ Sir, THE Controler-Gexeral, — I pray you to have 
distributed to the poor in the parishes of Paris two hundred 
thousand livres, that prayers be made for the king. If you 
think this too much, deduct it from the incomes of the 
dauphiness and myself. 

‘ ‘ Signed, Louis Augustus. ’ ’ 

On the seventh and eighth days the disease grew worse. 
The king felt his body literally going into shreds. Desert- 
ed by his courtiers, who dared no longer remain near that 
living corpse, he had no longer any attendants but his three 
daughters, who did not leave him for a moment. 

The king was frightened. In the terrible gangrene that 
now attacked his whole body, he saw a direct chastisement 
from on high. For him that invisible hand which marked 
him with black spots was the hand of God. In a de- 
lirium, so much the more awful because it was not the re- 
sult of fever, but remorse, he saw flames, he saw the burn- 
ing gulf, and called upon his confessor, the poor blind 
priest, his sole refuge, to hold out the crucifix between him 
and- the lake of fire. Then he himself took the holy water, 
and raising the counterpane and sheets, had his whole body 
sprinkled with it, uttering groans of terror the while: then 
he asked for the crucifix, took it in both hands, and kissed 
it fervently, crying: “Oh, Lord I oh. Lord! intercede for 
me, for me, the greatest sinner that ever lived!’’ 

It was in such terrific and despairing agony that he 
passed the ninth day of the month. During that day, 
which was only one long confession, neither the priest nor 
his daughters left him. His body was a prey to the most 
hideous gangrene, and living, the corpse-like king exhaled 
such an odor that two valets fell asphyxiated; and one of 
the two died. 

On the morning of the tenth day the bones of his hips 
were visible through the cracked skin; three other valets 
fainted. Terror took hold upon Versailles. The whole 
household took to flight. 

There were no longer any other human occupants of the 
palace but the three noble daughters and the worthy priest. 

On the tenth, the whole day long was one prolonged 
agony; the king, already dead, decided that he would not 


MOl^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIis’S WILL. Ill 

die. It might have been said that he wanted to throw him- 
self out of the tomb, that bed which was waiting for him. 
At last, Just five minutes before three o’clock a. m., he 
raised himself up, threw out his arms, and with eyes fixed 
upon a certain spot in the room, exclaimed: 

Chauvelin! Ohauvelin! it is not two months yeti” 
Then he fell back and died. 

Whatever virtue God may have put into the hearts of 
the three princesses and priest, the king being dead, they 
thought, like him, that their task was done; besides, all 
three were already tainted with the grievous malady that 
had just killed the king. 

Provision for the funeral was left for the grand master 
of ceremonies, who made all his arrangements without 
once entering the palace. 

The night workmen of Versailles were the only ones 
found who dared to put the king into the leaden coffin 
which had been prepared for him. He was laid in this 
last resting-place without balm or aromatics, rolled up in 
the bed-clothes upon which he had died. Then this leaden 
coffin was put into a wooden case and the whole borne to 
the chapel. 

On the twelfth he who had been Louis XV. was con- 
veyed to St. Denis; the coffin was in a large hunting-coach. 
A second carriage was occupied by the Duke d’Ayen and 
the Duke d’Aumont; then in the third carriage came the 
grand almoner and the Curate of Versailles. About 
twenty pages and fifty grooms on horseback and bearing 
torches formed the cortege. 

The funeral procession, leaving Versailles at eight 
o’clock in the evening, got to St. Denis at eleven, and the 
entrance into the vault was immediately not only closed, 
but made air-tight, in order that no emanation from that 
putrid mass might filter from the abode of the dead into 
the atmosphere of the living. 

We have told elsewhere of the joy of the Parisians over 
the death of Louis XIV. This joy was no less great when 
they saw themselves rid of him whom, thirty years before, 
they had surnamed the “ Well Beloved.” 

They rallied the Curate of St. Genevieve upon the effi- 
cacy of the chase. 

‘‘ Of what are you complaining,” said he; “ is he not 
dead.”’ 


112 MOifSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK'S WILL. 

The next day Madame du Barry received a letter of ^exile 
at Rueil. 

At the same time Sophie Arnould learned of the king’s 
death and Madame du Barry’s exile. 

■ ‘‘Alas!” said she, “we are orphaned of father and 
mother.” 

This was the only funeral oration pronounced over the 
tomb of the grandson of Louis XIV. 


XIIL 

A DINNER AT ROSSINI ’S. 

In 1840 I returned to Italy for the third or fourth time, 
and I was commissioned by my good friend Denniee, in- 
spector of the revenues, to carry a lace veil to Madame 
Rossini, who resided at Bologna with the illustrious com- 
poser, to whom “ Count Ory ” and “ William Tell ” have 
given French naturalization papers. 

I do not know whether, after I am gone, anything will 
be left of me; but however that may be, I have adopted 
the pious custom of at the same time as I forget my ene- 
mies, of associating the name of my friends not only with 
my private life, but my literary life besides. In this way, 
in proportion as I advance toward the future, I carry along 
with me all that has borne a part in my past, all that com- 
mingles with my present, as a river might do that should 
not content itself with reflecting the flowers, trees, and 
houses on its banks, but would force the image of these 
houses, trees, and flowers to follow it to the very ocean. 

Another thing, I am never alone so long as a book of 
my own lies near me. I open that book. Each page re- 
calls to me a day that is past, and that day is instantly re- 
called from its dawn to its twilight, instinct with the same 
emotions that filled it before, peopled by the same persons 
who acted their parts in it at first. Where was I that 
day? In what part of the world was I seeking diversion, 
asking for a souvenir, gathering a hope, a bud that often 
withers before it bursts into bloom, a flower that often 
fades before it is fairly open? 

Was I visiting Germany, Italy, Africa, England, or 
Greece? Was I going up the Rhine, praying at the Coli- 
seum, hunting in the Sierra, camping in the desert, or 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 113 

meditating at Westminster; was I engraving my name 
upon the tomb of Archimedes or the rock of Ther- 
mopylae? What hand touched mine? Was it that of a 
king seated on his throne? Was it that of a shepherd keep- 
ing his flock? What prince has called me his friend? 
What beggar has called me his brother? With whom 
shared I my purse in the morning? Who broke bread with 
me in the evening? What happy hours have been Jotted 
down in chalk during the last twenty years, and what 
gloomy ones marked down in charcoal? 

Alas! the best of my life already is made up of memo- 
ries, I am like one of those leafy trees full of birds, silent 
at midday, but waking up again toward the close of the 
day, and which, when evening has come, will fill my old 
age full of the beating of wings and song; thus will they 
make it gay with their Joy, their love, and their din, until 
death shall touch the hospitable tree in its turn, and the 
falling tree shall scare away all those noisy songsters, each 
of which will only be one of the hours of my life. 

Only to behold how a single name has Just made me 
turn out of my way and cast me forth from reality into 
dream-land. The friend who has commissioned me to take 
charge of that veil for him has since died. What a genial 
soul he was, too; how lively and inexhaustible as a teller 
of anecdotes I What pleasant evenings have we spent to- 
gether at the house of Mademoiselle Mars, another 
charming person, upon whom death has also breathed, and 
who went out as a star would go out in the sky of my life. 

I was going to Florence, which was the terminus of my 
Journey; but instead of stopping there, I took up the idea 
of pushing on as far as Bologna and executing my com- 
mission in worthy style — that is to say, by delivering the 
veil in person into the beautiful hands for which it was 
destined. 

It would take three days to go, three to return, and I 
could not remain less than a day, making seven in all — 
seven days of labor wasted, lost. But, faith! I was going 
to see Eossini again — Kossini, who undoubtedly had Just 
exiled himself for fear of yielding to the temptation of 
composing some new chef-d’oeuvre. 

I remember that it was toward evening that I arrived in 
sight of Bologna. From a distance the city seemed bathed 
in a vapor, above which arose, standing out from the som- 


114 MOXSIEUR DE CHAUVELIJ^-^S WILL. 

ber background of the Apennines, the Cathedral of St. 
Peter, and those two rivals of the leaning tower of Pisa, 
La Garizenda and L’Asinelli. Now and then the sun, just 
about to set, darted a last ray that made the windows of 
some palaces flare up as if they were ablaze ; while the lit- 
tle river of Keno, tinted with all the colors of the sky that 
it reflected, wound along through the plain like a ribbon 
of silvered moire. But by degrees the sun went down be- 
hind the mountain; the panes of glass, so brilliant at first, 
were gradually growing dark. The Reno assumed a dull 
and leaden hne; then night fell rapidly, enveloj^ing the 
city in its black veil, which, however, was very soon dotted 
with thousands of bright points as luminous as those that 
shone in the sky. 

It was ten o’clock at night when, with all my things, I 
entered the inn of the Three Kings. 

My first care was to send my card to Rossini, who re- 
sponded that, from that moment, his palace was at my dis- 
posal. The next day, at eleven o’clock, I was ensconced 
in his house. 

The Palace Rossini is like all Italian palaces, composed 
of marble columns, frescoes, and paintings, • the whole 
spacious enough to allow of three or four French houses 
dancing a cotillon within its limits. It is built for sum- 
mer, never for winter — that is to say, full of air, shade, 
freshness, roses, and camellias. 

In Italy, you know, flowers aj^pear to spring up in apart- 
ments and not in gardens, where one sees and hears only 
cicadas. 

Rossini dwelt in this world of salons, chambers, ante- 
chambers, and terraces. Always gay, laughing, sparkling 
with wit and humor; his wife, on the contrary, swept 
through these same apartments, smiling also, but with 
slow, dignified step and beautiful face like the Judith of 
Horace Vernet. 

She bowed before me, and I threw over her head that 
famous black veil which was the cause of my visit to Bo- 
logna. 

Rossini had already arranged his dinner-party. He de- 
sired to have guests present who should be agreeable to 
me; and knowing that some day or other I was to go to 
Venice, he had invited a young Venetian poet named 
Luigi de Scamozza, who had just finished his studies at 


MOXSIEUR DE CirAUVELIX's WILL. 115 

that famous University of Bologna, which has given this 
device to the money of the city: “ Bonnonia doceV' 

I had four hours before me in which to visit Bologna, 
that I expected to leave the next day, to return, though, 
later. I begged Rossini to excuse me, and set out on my 
round, while the illustrious maestro went down into the 
kitchen to give his whole mind to a dish of stuff ato served 
with maccaroni, for the preparation of which Rossini 
claimed to have no equal in the whole Italian peninsula, 
since the death of Cardinal Alberoni. 

Later, perhaps, I’ll tell of the wonders of the university 
town. I’ll describe that “ Neptune ” in bronze, clief- 
d^wuvre of her own celebrated child, that she had christ- 
ened with her own name; its cathedral of St. Peter, rich 
above all in the “ Annunciation ” of Louis Carrache; her 
church of St. Petrone, with its famous Meridian di Cassini. 
I shall measure the inclination of her two towers, the stand- 
ing text for disputes among the learned, who have not yet 
been able to decide whether they lean through a caprice of 
the architect of from the effects of an earthquake; whether 
they have been made to lean forward by the hand of man 
or the breath of the Almighty. But to-day, like Schehera- 
zade, I am in haste to get back to my story, and here I am 
with it. 

Six o’clock found us assembled at the house of the cele- 
brated master, seated around a long table placed in the 
middle of a vast dining-hall, painted in fresco, and open to 
the air on all sides. The table, in accordance with Italian 
customs, was covered with flowers and crystallized fruits, 
all disposed so as to serve as an accompaniment for the 
famous stuff ato which was the dish of the dinner. 

Our gueks were two or three Italian men of learning — 
that is to say, a specimen of those worthy men who carry 
on discussions for a century, in order to ascertain whether 
the story of Ugolino is an allegory or a fact; whether Bea- 
trice is an imaginary or a real character; whether Laura 
had thirteen or only twelve children. 

Two or three artists from the Theater of Bologna, 
among them a young tenor named Roppa, who suddenly 
discovered that he had a fine voice, and from the kitchen 
of a cardinal launched forth upon ibhe boards of the Feni- 
cean Theater. 

Lastly, that young student-poet of whom Rossini had 


lie MOIS^SIEUR DE CHArTELTN*S WILL. 

spoken to me, Avith sad, or, rather, melancholy counte- 
nance, a noble thinker, at the bottom of whose soul lived 
the hope of Italian regeneration; an admirable soldier, who 
to-day, like another Hector, defends that heroic Venice 
which recalls the impossible marvels of antiquity, by strug- 
gling like another Troy, another Syracuse, or another 
Carthage. 

Lastly Eossini, his wife, and I. 

The conversation turned upon Dante, Petrarch, Tasso, 
Cimarosa, Pergolese, Beethoven, Grimod de la Eeyniere, 
and Brillat-Savarin; and I must say, to the great praise of 
Eossini, that it Avas upon these two illustrious gastrono- 
mists that he seemed to me to have the clearest and best 
defined ideas. 

Let us hasten to add that he Avas valiantly supported on 
this territory of Eoppa, who, ignorant of theory, but a 
man of practical experience, had had ten years’ training in 
cookery without hearing of Care me, as he has since been 
studying music for four years without knowing anything 
about Gretry. 

All this coiiA^ersation led me to ask Eossini Avhy he Avas 
not composing music. 

Why, I thought that I had given a sufficient reason.” 

‘‘ What was it?” 

‘‘lam lazy.” 

“ Is that the only one?” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ So that, if a director were aAvaiting you at the corner 
of the theater and Avere to put a pistol to your throat — ” 

“ Saying to me: ‘ Eossini, you are going to make your 
finest opera, are you not?’ ” 

“‘Yes.’” 

“ ‘ Well, I’ll do it.’ ” 

Alas! there Avas much more bitterness, perhaps, than 
good nature in this speech. Besides, perhaps I may be 
wrong, but I have never believed in that good nature of a 
mighty genius, and every time that Eossini has talked of 
cookery to me, it has always seemed to me that it was to 
avoid talking on some other subject. 

“ Come, Berlioz, answer me, my great musician-poet, is 
there not, as in the case of Ugolino, some intangible myth 
as regards that illustrious Pezzarois who adores maccaroni 
and despises sauerkraut?” 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELTX'S WILL. 117 

‘‘ So/’ said I to Rossini, the whole question is reduced 
to a matter of lying in wait?” 

“ To nothing else.” 

‘‘ But if, instead of a pistol, a poem should be thrust 
under your throat?” 

‘‘ Try it.” 

“ Hold on, Rossini,” said I to him; one strange thing 
is, that if I were working for you I would change the regu- 
lar order of things. ” 

“ How so?” 

“ Yes; instead of giving you a poem for which you 
should supply the music, you should give me a composi- 
tion, and I would make words to it for you.” 

‘‘ Stop!” said Rossini. Explain your idea to me, 
please.” 

“Oh! it is very simple. In the union of composer and 
poet one must absorb the other — either the poem kills the 
composition, or the composition kills the poem. Now, 
which side ought to make the sacrifice? It must come 
from the poet, since, thanks to singers, one never hears the 
words, and thanks to the orchestra, one always does hear 
the music.” 

“ So you are of the opinion of those who think that fine 
verses are a drawback to the composer?” 

“ Certainly, dear maestro; poetry — poetry such as Vic- 
tor Hugo makes, such as Lamartine makes — has its own 
music within itself. It is not a sister of music, but a rival; 
it is not an ally, it is an adversary. Instead of contribut- 
ing aid to the siren, the enchantress enters into conflict 
with her. It is the combat of Armide and the fairy Mor- 
gana. Music remains victorious, but her victory exhausts 
her.” 

“ Then you will consent to write words to put to music?” 

“To be sure. I who have written three hundred vol- 
umes and twenty-five dramas, would consent to that be- 
cause it would .flatter my pride to aid you, to serve you in 
any way, because I who hold a first place myself when I 
like would feel myself honored to yield it to you out of 
courtesy, you whom I love, you whom I admire, you who 
are my brother in art. I have my kingdom as you have 
yours. If Eteocles and Polynicius had each had a throne 
they would never have cut each other’s throats, and prob- 


118 


:NrOXSIEUH be rHAUVELIX'S WILL. 


ably would have died of old age, paying each other visits 
every New Year’s Day.” 

“ Marvelous! I’ll hold you to your word.” 

“ To make poetry to go with your music?” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

‘‘ I give you my promise. Only tell me beforehand 
what sort of opera you would like.” 

“ I would like a fantastic opera.” 

“ You see plainly, my dear Berlioz, that there was sauer- 
kraut at the bottom of it after all.” 

A fantastic opera,” replied I, “ take care. Italy, 
with its pure air, is not the land of supernatural traditions; 
for phantoms, specters, apparitions are needed for the long, 
cold nights of the north, the fogs of England or the vapors 
of the Rhine. What would a poor ghost do astray in the 
midst of the ruins of Rome, on the shores of Naples, in the 
plains of Sicily? Where would it find a refuge if pursued 
by an exorcist? Not the least mist in which to wrap, nor 
a bit of fog in which to hide, not the smallest forest in 
which to seek an asylum; it would be tracked, collared, 
led into the light. People the night with dreams, then, 
when night is your day, when the moon is your sun, when 
you live, not from eight o’clock in the morning until eight 
o’clock in the evening, but from eight o’clock in the even- 
ing to eight o’clock in the morning. While our dark even- 
ings pass slowly by; when by the light of a smoky lamp we 
are shut up in our cellars, where the young girls whirl the 
distaff and the young men tell tales, you meanwhile are en- 
joying serenades, your streets being full of merry sounds 
and songs of love. Your apparition is a beautiful young 
girl, with black eyes and dark hair, who shows herself upon 
her balcony, lets fall a bouquet of roses and disappears. 
Oh, Juliet! Juliet! You arose from your tomb only be- 
cause Shakespeare, the poet of the North, bid you to rise. 
And you obeyed the voice of that mighty enchanter, that 
nothing could resist, you lovely spring flower of Venice! 
But none of your compatriots would have thought of it be- 
fore, nor would afterward have thought of giving 3^ou a 
like order. Take care, Rossini! take care!” 

“ I have let you talk, have I not?” said my host, smil- 
ing. 

‘ ‘ Yes, and I beg your pardon for having abused the per- 
mission.” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’s WILL. 119 

N^o; speak on, speak always. There is my friend 
Louis Scamozza, who is a poet like you, who is listening to 
you, and will take it upon himself to reply to you.’’ 

I extended my hand to my young colleague. 

“ I am listening,” said I to him. 

Do you know why the illustrious master refers you to 
me?” said Scamozza, smiling. 

Because he knows that I would take pleasure in hear- 
ing from you.” 

‘‘ No, it is not that. Because he knows that an event 
which happened to one of my ancestors protests energetic- 
ally against what you have just said. Is it possible that an 
admirer of Dante should come and refuse to us that sub- 
lime poetry treating of the world beyond the tomb, of 
which the Florentine exile is the sole model, and of which 
Milton, the poet of the North, is only the feeble neo- 
phyte? Alas! we have a right to all manner of poetry, 
for we have had all sorts of misfortunes. Have you ever 
seen your gray sky irradiated by two shades more luminous 
than those of Francesca and Paolo? Have you ever seen 
issue from the grave a more terrible specter than that of 
Farinata degli Uberti? Have you ever stepped side by 
side with a sweeter spirit than that of the poet Sordello of 
Mantua? Ah! you doubt the spiritual side of Italy! Very 
well; let Eossini give you his score. I, for my part, will 
give you your poem.” 

You?” 

‘‘Yes, I; did I not tell you that in my own family lived 
the memory of a mournful story?” 

“ Very well, tell it me.” 

“ No; for everybody knows it here; but I repeat, let Ros- 
sini send you his score and I will send you my story.” 

“ And when, pray?” 

“ To-morrow morning.” 

“ All right,” said Rossini. “ To-night, before I lie 
down to rest. I’ll write the overture.” 

Then lifting his glass. 

“ Here’s success to the ‘ The Students of Bologna.’ ” 

Each one testified his acquiescence by touching his neigh- 
bor’s glass and expressing hearty good wishes. 

Nothing was talked of but thi^ beautiful project during 
the remainder of the meal. 


120 ; MOI^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

At ten o’clock we arose from the table. Rossini seated 
himself at the piano and improvised the overture. 

■ Unfortunately, he forgot to note it down. 

The next day I received the story. 

I have heard nothing more of the musical score. 

Now for the story; here it is. 


XIV. 

THE OATH. 

On December 1st, 1703, under the pontificate of Pope 
Clement XL, about four o’clock in the afternoon, three 
yoimg men, whom it was easy to recognize as students be- 
longing to the University of Bologna, left the city by the 
Florentine Gate, and wended their way toward that charm- 
ing cemetery which at first sight presents rather the aspect 
of a gay promenade than a mortuary inclosure. All three 
walked with a rapid step, enveloped in great cloaks, and 
looking behind them like men who are afraid of being fol- 
lowed. 

One of them hid something under his cloak, and it was 
easy to see that what he hid was a couple of swords. 

Arrived at the wall of the cemetery, instead of going to 
the entrance, the three young men turned to the right, 
and went along the southern front; then arrived at the ex- 
tremity of that wall, they turned abruptly to the left, and 
leaning against the eastern face, they found three other 
young men, two of whom were seated and one standing. 
These three young men seemed to be waiting for them. 

On perceiving the last-comers, the two young men who 
were seated got up, and the one standing left the support 
of the wall. All three advanced to meet the party that 
had just come uj). 

These three were also covered u^d in their cloaks, and 
the edge of one of the cloaks was raised by the point of 
two swords. 

Four of the young men continued to advance until they 
had met. 

The other two stayed behind, each on his own side, in 
such a manner that when the four students had come to- 
gether and formed a group, the two left solitary were each 
twenty paces from the group, and consequently forty paces 
one from each other. 


MOXSTEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 121 

The four young men conferred for a moment in the most 
animated manner, while of the two isolated young men who 
remained aloof from the conference, one dug a hole in the 
moist ground by pessing heavily upon his cane, while the 
other made the thistle-heads fly with his switch. 

Two or three times the conference broke off, and each 
time the group in the middle separated to form a double 
group, of which, for the time being, the two isolated young 
men became the two principal personages. 

Each time these could be seen making positive signs of 
refusal, equivalent to saying that they would not follow 
the advice of their companions nor abate an iota in their 
demands. 

Finally the negotiations becoming tedious and appearing 
to offer no possible friendly solution, the young men who 
carried the swords drew them out from underneath their 
cloaks and yielded them to the investigation of their com- 
panions. 

The swords were then examined in the most scrupulous 
manner. It was evident that they were discussing the 
greater or less gravity of the wounds as dependent upon 
the form of the weapon. Lastly, as they could not agree 
upon which sort to choose, they tossed a piece of money 
into the air, that the choice of swords might be the result 
of chance. 

Chance having pronounced a verdict, the rejected swords 
were cast aside; they made -a sign to the two isolated young 
men, who approached, politely exchanging a slight nod of 
recognition, and threw down their coats and vests. 

Then the one planted his cane in the ground, while the 
other threw his switch on his clothes. 

Both drew near to each other. 

Then one of their companions presented to each one of 
them a sword by the handle, crossed the two points, and 
drawing back, pronounced the word “ Gol’^ 

Both attacked at the same instant, and their swords 
crossed up to the handle. 

Both immediately took one step backward, and put 
themselves on guard. 

The two were nearly of equal strength, but that was of 
inferior grade. 

At the end of a few seconds the sword of one of the two 
disappeared almost entirely in the body of his adversary. 


122 MOKSIEUR BE CHAUVELIK'S -WILL. 

Enough?’^ said he who had struck the blow, making 
a bound backward, and lowering his sword, still, however, 
standing on the defensive. . 

‘‘ No,'^ said the other — ‘‘ no.’' 

“Yes." 

And he who had last spoken regarded his sword-blade, 
which was moist and reddened two thirds of its length. 

“ It is nothing! it is nothing!" said the wounded man, 
taking one step forward, preparing to advance upon his 
enemy. 

But at that movement a jet of blood gushed forth from 
his wound, the hand that held the-sword was outstretched, 
and his sword fell to the ground. The wounded man 
coughed painfully, and wanted to spit, but had not the 
strength. Only Woody foam reddened his lips. 

Two of the young men were medical students. 

“ Ah! the devil!" said they, on beholding those symp- 
toms which indicated that the wound was a serious one. 

In fact, almost immediately the one of the two com- 
batants who had been struck dropped his head upon his 
breast, tottered, turned half-way around, beating the air 
with his arms, and fell, heaving a sigh. 

The two medical students rushed forward and stooped 
over the body of their comrade, one of them having already 
opened his case of surgical instruments and holding his 
lancet ready to bleed the wounded man if necessary. 

But the other, who had rolled up his sleeve, let' the arm 
drop, saying: 

“ It is useless; he is dead!" 

At that word the one Avho had remained standing turned 
frightfully pale, and looked as if he too were going to die. 
He threw down his sword and moved impulsively toward 
the body of his adversary; but the two seconds stopped 
him. 

“ Come! come!" said one of them; “ it is a misfortune; 
but as it is irreparable, the thing to do is not to lament but 
to gain the frontier. Have you any money?" 

“ Seven or eight crowns perhaps." 

Each one fumbled in his pocket. 

“Hold! Take!" said four voices together, “and save 
yourself without losing a minute." 

The young man resumed his vest, coat, and cloak. 

And after having pressed the hand of some and em- 


MOXSIEUR DE CHArVELIJy-'S WILL. 123 

braced the others, according to the degree of his intimacy 
with them, he darted off in the direction of the Apennines, 
and soon disappeared amid the gathering shades of night. 

The looks of the four young men had followed him until 
the moment of his disappearance. 

Now,’^ said one of them, and Antonio?’’ 

All eyes were directed to the corpse. 

Antonio?” 

Yes; what are we going to do with him?” 

“ Carry him back to the city, of course. We shall not 
leave him there, I hope!” 

‘‘ No, to be sure; but what shall we say?” 

‘‘ That is very simple. Let us say that we were all four 
taking a walk outside the city walls, when suddenly we 
came upon Antonio and Ettore, who were fighting. We 
made haste to try and part them; but before we had got 
there Antonio had fallen dead and Ettore had taken to 
flight. Only let us say that he fled in the direction of 
Modena instead of saying that he took the road to the 
Apennines; the absence of Ettore will confirm what we 
say.” 

Well!” 

This version of the affair being adopted unanimously, 
they hid the second pair of swords in some brush-wood. 
They then rolled the dead man up in his cloak and bore 
him to the city. 

At the gate of the city the young men made the affirma- 
tion agreed upon; they procured four porters, had Antonio 
placed upon a stretcher and conveyed to his lodgings. 

For that matter, half the pain was spared the young 
men, because Antonio was a Venetian, and his family did 
not reside at Bologna. A letter would convey the sad 
news, and one of his friends, a Venetian himself, and ac- 
quainted with Antonio’s family, was commissioned to write 
this letter. 

This young man was one of the three whom we have 
seen go out through the Florentine Gate. His name was 
Beppo de Scamozza; the second was from Velletri, and his 
name was Gaetano Komanoli; the third was the one who 
had remained on the battle-field. 

We have said all that we had to say of the deceased. 
Let us follow the living to the small chamber that they oc- 


124 : 


MOXSIEUK DE CHAUVELIi^’S WILL. 


cupied in the third story of a house, the tenants of which 
made a business of taking student lodgers. 

The clock of St. Dominique’s Church struck seven of 
the evening as these two young men, throwing their cloaks 
upon the bed which was common to them, sat down facing 
each other on the two sides of a table upoh which burned 
one of those lamps with three burners, which still in our 
day served for lighting up Italian houses, and which, at 
the period when these events took place, were far more 
common than they are to-day. 

A single jet was burning, and cast an uncertain light 
abroad in the room. 

Let us say a word about these two young men, upon 
whom will be concentrated the interest of the events that 
we are going to narrate. 

One of them, as we have said, was named Beppo de 
Scamozza, and was a Venetian; the other, Gaetano Ro- 
manoli, and was a Roman. 

Beppo had just completed his twenty-second year. He 
was the natural son of a great lord, who had settled upon 
him a small fortune of six or eight thousand livres a year, 
leaving him free and alone in life. 

The other, on the contrary, belonged to a family of hon- 
est merchants, who, while they transacted a large business 
at Rome, owned a villa at Velletri. In this villa it was 
that Gaetano was born. 

The different position of the two young men, in the 
midst of the world where chance had thrown them, had 
very much influenced the morale, and, I would almost say, 
the physique of each of them; the countenance modifies 
the face. And what is the countenance? The superficial 
expression of inward feelings. Suppose two children to 
have the same face at the moment of their birth, and cause 
these children to make the acquaintance of life, the one 
from its dark side, the other from its bright side, sur- 
rounded, the one by misfortunes, the other by delights, 
and at twenty-five years of age these two faces, which for- 
merly had a similar expression, will now wear an entirely 
different expression. 

Beppo, isolated, without family, brought up by stran- 
gers, was almost exiled in life. ‘ From his childhood he 
had eaten that bread with bitter salt of which Dante 
speaks. He was tall, slender, pale, melancholy; his hair, 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 125 

that he wore long, as was the fashion of the period, fell in 
black curls over his shoulders, lie preferred to the ele- 
gant apparel that his small fortune would have enabled 
him to wear, clothing of dark colors and without embroid- 
ery; it is true that their cut redeemed their simplicity, and 
that in the simplest attire Beppo de Scamozza ever looked 
the gentleman. 

As to Gaetano Romanoli, he was a jolly student of 
twenty years, who was taking the law course with the in- 
tention of becoming an advocate, in order to leave to his 
sister Bettina, whom he adored, all the advantages that 
might accrue to her, when the time came for her to be es- 
tablished in life, by the surrender to her of their parents’ 
mercantile establishment. Brought up in the bosom of 
his family, surrounded by all those thoughtful attentions 
of which Beppo ’s childhood and youth had been deprived, 
Gaetano had always known existence under its cheerful as- 
pect, and smiled at the life that smiled at him. He was a 
handsome young man, with brouzed cheeks, that were full, 
however, of freshness and youth, with a Grecian nose, 
quick eye, and white teeth that disclosed a frank and 
friendly smile. 

How had two characters so opposite as these become, as 
it were, soldered to each other? How had the friendship 
between the melancholy Beppo and the merry Gaetano be- 
come proverbial? How was it that they had only one 
room, one table, and, according to the old tradition of their 
comrades, only one bed? It was one of those mysteries of 
attraction which is only explained by that sympathy of con- 
trasts which is much more common than people think, and 
often unites strength to weakness, sadness to joy, sweetness 
to violence. 

The two young men sat for a moment lost in thought, 
one facing the other. 

But the first one, raising his head: 

‘‘ What are you thinking about?” asked Beppo. 

‘‘ Alas!” answered Gaetano, I am thinking of some- 
thing terrible. It is that what has just happened to poor 
Antonio this evening might happen to one of us, and that 
we would be separated forever.” 

‘‘ That is strange,” said Beppo. “ I was having exact- 
ly the same thought.” 


126 


MONSIEUE DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


‘‘ And,” continued Gaetano, holding his hand out to his 
friend, that my sweetest dream would be thereby de- 
stroyed.” 

‘‘ Of what dream are you speaking?” 

■ “ That hope of which I have talked to you many times, 
which is to make us more than two friends, which is to 
make of us two brothers.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes,” said Beppo, sadly. “ Bettina!” 

‘‘ If you knew how pretty she is, Beppo! If you knew 
how she loves you — ” 

‘‘Nonsense! How could she love me? She has never 
seen me?” 

“ Has she not seen you through my eyes? Does she not 
know you through my letters?” 

Beppo shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Listen,” said Gaetano. “ I’ll bet one thing.” 

“ What is that?” 

“ She has never seen you, it is true.” 

“ Well, what of it?” 

“ Well, I bet that if she should chance to meet you, she 
would recognize you.” 

“ Come, then! Besides, what is the use of indulging in 
these fine fancies? You know very well that your father 
will never give Bettina to any but a merchant.” 

“You are much better than a merchant; you — you are 
a nobleman.” 

“ A pretty nobleman, to be sure, with a bar sinister 
across his escutcheon,” said Beppo, shaking his head. 
“ No, my dear Gaetano, let us only indulge in dreams that 
may come true.” 

“ What are they?” 

“ That of never being parted from each other, in the 
first place. Oh! make yourself easy; that will in nothing 
disturb the even tenor of your life while your friendship 
for me shall endure. I can follow you everywhere; I have 
no family, and am hardly certain that I have a country. 
What care the people with whom I live about the spot that 
I inhabit? If you cease to love me, if I become burden- 
some to you, you will tell me so; then our bodies shall be 
separated, since our hearts no longer beat in unison.” 

“ Odds fish, man! What has put all these melancholy 
ideas into your mind?” cried Gaetano. “ Friend, one 


^roxsTEur. de cirArvELix's will. 13? 

thing only will separate us, as you know, if you think like 
me.’^ 

What?’^ 

“ Death.;^ 

“ Well, if you think, like me, friend,^’ said Beppo, 
‘‘ death even wall not separate us.’^ 

“ Explain yourself.’’ 

‘‘ Do you believe that some part of us survives our natu- 
ral life?; ’ 

‘‘ Religion promises us this, and our hearts confirm it.” 

“ Do you really believe in this immortality of the soul?” 

“Ido.” 

“ Well, friend, we have only to bind ourselves by one of 
those oaths that pledges body and soul, and if one of us 
dies the body alone will have left the body, while the soul 
will remain faithful to its friendship — for that which loves 
in us is not the body, but the soul.” 

“ Do you think that what you propose to me is not sac- 
rilege?” asked Gaetano. 

“ I do not think that one offends God by trying to sub- 
tract from death the purest feeling of which man is capa- 
ble— that is, friendship.” 

“ Well, be it so,” said Gaetano, holding out his hand to 
his friend. “In this world and the other, Beppo.” 

“Wait!” said the latter. 

He got up, went for a crucifix suspended over the head 
of the bed, and set it up on the table. 

Then he laid his hand upon the sacred image. 

“ By the blood of our Lord,” said he, “ I swear to my 
friend, Gaetano Romanoli, that if I die first, in whatever 
place my body may fall, my breath forsake me and my 
mortal existence cease, my soul will revisit him and tell 
him all that it is permitted me to tell of that great mys- 
tery that they call death. And this oath,” added Beppo, 
looking upward with a glance of full faith and piety, “ this 
oath I take in the conviction that it wounds in nothing the 
dogmas of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman religion, in 
which I was born, and in which I hope to die.” 

Gaetano, in his turn, laid his hand upon the crucifix, re- 
peating the same oath in the same words. 

At the very moment in which he pronounced the last 
word of the oath formulated by Beppo, there was a knock 
at the door. 


128 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN's WILL. 

The two young men embraced and then both together 
said: 

‘‘ Come in!^’ 


XV. 


THE TW^O STUDENTS OF BOLOGNA. 

A MAN entered, holding a letter in his hand. 

This man 'was the servant of the director of the post- 
office. 

The courier arrived from Rome in the evening, and ordi- 
narily letters were not received until morning. But the 
post-master, as he was placing letters beforehand in the 
different boxes, where they were to wait until called for by 
the persons for whom they were destined, had observed 
one addressed to himself. He had opened it, and inclosed 
in this letter he had found another one, which he was re- 
quested to forward without delay to Gaetano Romanoli, 
student at Bologna. 

. The young man was known to the post-master, who 
made haste to have delivered to him a missive that seemed 
so urgent. 

Gaetano took it from the hands of the messenger, to 
whom he gave a piece of money; then, with tottering step, 
he drew near the lamp. 

“ What is the matter?’’ asked Beppo. You look 
pale.” 

A letter from my sister,” murmured Gaetano, wiping 
away the moisture that had gathered upon his brow. 

“Well! Is that any reason for trembling and turning 
pale?” 

“ Some misfortune has come to our family,” said Gae- 
tano. 

“ How do you know that?” 

“ I know Bettina so well,” said Gaetano, “ that I can 
guess from simply looking at the handwriting under the 
impression of what she writes. I have no need to open her 
letter in order to learn whether she is sad, cheerful, or 
calm. The address tells me everything.” 

“ And this time the address tells you?” resumed Beppo, 
casting an uneasy look upon the letter. 

“ This time the address tells me that Bettina has written 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN’S WILL. 


129 


to me while weeping. Stop! Do you see the two first let- 
ters of our family name — a sob interrupted them.’’ 

‘‘Oh! you are mistaken,” said Beppo. 

“ Bead yourself,” answered Gaetano, giving the letter 
to his friend, sitting down and with a sigh burying his 
head in his hands. 

Beppo opened the letter; but at the first lines his hand 
trembled and his eyes fell sadly upon Gaetano. 

it was easy to see that he was weeping convulsively. 

“ Courage, friend,” said Beppo in a sweet voice, laying 
his hand on his companion’s shoulder. 

Gaetano raised his head. Tears were flowing down his 
cheeks. 

“ I have some,” said he. “ What has happened? 
Speak!” 

“ Your father is very ill, and desires to see you before 
he dies.” 

“ He is not dead, then?” exclaimed Gaetano, with a 
flash of joy. 

“No.” 

“ Are you not mistaken?” 

“ You had better read for yourself.” 

Gaetano took the letter and read. 

“ When do we set out?” said Beppo. 

“You ask when I am to set out, for you are to stay.” 

“ Why should I stay if you depart?” 

“ Because in three days you are to pass your examina- 
tion for a doctorate, because the thesis is printed, because 
the presents are sent to the professors.” 

“ Well, we shall postpone all that until our return.” 

“ No; for if it please God you shall not return, Beppo.” 

“ So you want me to let you go by yourself?” 

“ As soon as your thesis has passed you must come and 
join me. If we are so happy as to save my poor father, you 
will help us to nurse him, and by the time he is well he 
will look upon you as one of the family; if he dies, you are 
already one of us. Look! does not Bettina say at the close 
of her letter: ‘ Remember me most kindly to our dear 
brother Beppo. ’ ” 

“ I’ll do as you wish, Gaetano. You had better reflect 
well, though.” 

“ My reflections are made. As for me, I set out this 
evening, this very minute. As for you, you are to start in 


130 MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 

three days; but come now and help me to find a convey- 
ance, that we may be together as long as possible.^’ 

‘‘ Come!’’ said Beppo. 

Gaetano threw some linen and a coat into the satchel, 
took all the money that he had, thrust his pistols into his 
pockets, and, furnished with his student’s card for a pass- 
port, went out to look up a carriage. 

The young man found what he was looking for at the 
post-office building. Gaetano was to leave the chaise with 
the master of the post-house at Rome, who was a relation 
of the one at Bologna. 

At the end of ten minutes the horses were harnessed. 

On seeing his friend get into the carriage, Beppo again 
insisted upon accompanying him; but Gaetano was inexor- 
able. He again objected on account of the thesis, repeat- 
ing ten times to Beppo that it was a separation of three 
days, that was all, since on the third evening he would set 
out himself. 

Beppo yielded. 

The chaise began to move, the postilion cracked his 
whip, the horses set off, and the two friends exchanged one 
more farewell. 

Beppo waited until the chaise had disappeared; and when 
the noise of the wheels had died away, which seemed to 
prolong the presence of Gaetano near him, he heaved a 
sigh, and went back home with arms hanging and head 
bowed down. 

We shall not attempt to describe the sensation of sadness 
which took possession of Beppo on re-entering that solitary 
chamber, where everything reminded of the recent pres- 
ence of the friend who had just left it. 

He seated himself at that table near which was still the 
vacant chair upon which Gaetano had been seated an hour 
before; then having resolved not to lie down, he got his 
books, with pen and ink, and set to work. 

But a strange thing happened while he was working. 
His lamp went out three times, not suddenly, not by acci- 
dent, but of itself, like a mouth ceasing to breathe or a 
soul making its escape. 

Three times Beppo rekindled it, each time convincing 
himself that it had not gone out for want of oil — for at 
daylight the receptacle was still half full. 

Beppo was superstitious, as are all melancholy souls. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUYELIN'S WILL. 131 

His regret at having failed to attend Gaetano became al- 
most remorse, his sadness almost despair. 

Moreover, by a strange coincidence, each of the three 
times that the lamp had gone out it was while Beppo was 
engaged in writing to the parents of Antonio, as upon him 
devolved the duty of imparting to them the sad news of his 
untimely end. 

Day dawned without Beppo having lain down to rest. 
He had counted upon daylight dispelling his gloomy imagi- 
nations; but the day itself was as mournful as a winter 
day, and although the young man tried to study, study 
could not for a moment dispel the haunting idea that 
Gaetano was running into some danger. 

Indeed, the way is long from Bologna to Rome, and 
even now is not particularly safe for travelers who ride post 
by night, still less so at the period when took place the 
events that we are narrating. Whatever diligence Gaetano 
used, his friend could hardly hope that he would make the 
trip from Bologna to Rome in less than sixty hours, and 
as he had set out in the evening, and was not to stop under 
any pretext, as Beppo knew, this meant three nights of 
dangers to be encountered. 

The day passed in much sadness, and ended more sadly 
yet. The burial of Antonio was fixed for that evening. 
It took place by torch-light, as is customary in Italy, and 
all the University of Bologna, save his murderer and 
Gaetano, followed in the funeral procession. 

Toward eleven o’clock Bep^^o returned to his room, so 
weary that he did not even try to struggle against sleep, 
and having thrown himself on the bed, he almost imme- 
diately sunk into a profound slumber. 

But hardly had his lamp been put out, hardly were his 
eyes closed and his thought had lost its clearness, before 
Beppo uttered a cry, j umped out of bed, and, groping, felt 
for his sword. 

St. Dominique’s church clock struck eleven. 

And yet, after a moment’s reflection, Beppo lighted up 
his lamp again, and pale and thoughtful, seated himself 
upon his bed, but without laying down his sword. 

He had just dreamed that Gaetano, stopped at the turn 
of a road, was struggling in the midst of a dozen men with 
sinister looks. He seemed to hear the firing off of both his 


132 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


pistols, and fully awake as he now was^ a voice still sound- 
ed in his ear which called for help. 

However, after a few moments of reflection, reason got 
the better of this terror, for which there was no warrant, 
so he lay down and fell asleep again. 

But his dream continued like an action begun and going 
on to completion. 

He saw Gaetano stretched on the side of the road with a 
Avound in his heart. 

Then finally, in the midst of a solitary landscape, amid 
mountains covered with snow, a freshly covered-up ditch, 
the black indenture of which alone soiled the white mantle 
of winter. 

When Beppo awoke after this third dream, day had 
come. 

This was the day on which he was to undergo his exami- 
nation; but instead of performing the duty allotted to it, 
the young man got up, put on his traveling suit, in his 
turn took up his weapons, and purse, buying the strongest 
horse that he could find, and set forth to join Gaetano, oi 
at least to get news of him. He was determined to travel 
night and d^ay, following the same route that he had taken. 
When his horse could bear him no longer, he would buy or 
hire another one. 

In virtue of this resolution, he journeyed from seven 
o’clock in the morning until ten at night, with no other 
interruption than a half hour’s halt at Lojono. In the 
afternoon he would have much liked to continue his jour- 
ney, but his horse refused to stir. He had gone a distance 
of fifty miles, and positively required a few hours of rest. 

Beppo, then, Avas compelled to come to a halt, as we 
have said, at ten o’clock in the evening at Monte-Carelli, a 
little village situated in the heart of the Apennines. 

He stopped at a small inn ordinarily patronized by none 
but muleteers. And after having given all the care neces- 
sary for the AA^ell-being of his horse, with which he con- 
cerned himself first of all, he thought of himself and asked 
for supper. 

This room apart was a loAV-pitched hall, dimly lighted 
by a mean lamp, into which an old Avoman had ushered 
Beppo, AA^hile in his presence a meal was prepared for him, 
Avhich AA^as to be confined to two cutlets and an oipelct 
with sausage. 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 133 

While all these preliminaries were being settled, the anx- 
ious young man was pacing up and down the floor, his 
sword striking against his legs. Finally the two expected 
dishes were served. The old woman flnished her work by 
putting a glass and bottle on the table, then asked Beppo 
if he wanted anything, and upon receiving a negative an- 
swer, went out, leaving the traveler alone to discuss his 
meal. 

Beppo was in haste to get through with this meager col- 
lation, daring which he hoped strongly that his horse, 
which, for his part, stood before a crib heaped high with 
hay, would recover strength to continue his journey. He 
took off his sword, then placed it upon a chest, and went 
to take his seat. 

But hardly had he taken his place, when, on the other 
side of the table, facing him, without knowing how he had 
entered, nor how he had come there, he saw Gaetano seat- 
ed with crossed arms, who smiled upon him sadly, at the 
same time shaking his head. 

Although this was not the exjDression which usually light- 
ed up the countenance of his friend, Beppo recognized him 
and uttered a cry of joy. 

Ah! it is you, then, dear Gaetano!’’ exclaimed he, ris- 
ing to embrace him. 

But he caught only air. His open arms met together 
again without having touched anything. Three times the 
apparition escaped, as a vapor, from the embraces of the 
afflicted young man. And yet the specter remained visi- 
ble, and always seated in the same place. 

Beppo began to understand that he had to do with a 
spirit, but as it was that of the man that he loved most in 
the world, he was not frightened, and began to question it. 

Not only did he receive no answer, but by degrees the 
vision paled, melted away, and disappeared. 

This time the vision came to confirm the impression of 
the dream. Beppo could no longer think of anything but 
Gaetano. Some grave accident must have happened to his 
friend for God to send him this double warning. 

He called his hostess, paid for the supper which he had 
not eaten, and, going to the stable, saddled his horse and 
departed. 

It really seemed as though some supernatural power sus- 
tained the steed as well as his rider. Beppo kept on his 


134 


MOJS'SIEUE DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


way all the rest of the night, the whole of the next day, 
and in the evening, after three halts skillfully managed to 
suit the needs of his beast, he reached Assisa at seven 
o’clock. 

There, however much Beppo might desire to continue 
his course, he was compelled to pause. His horse could 
not put one foot before the other. 

He himself had need of repose. For one night and two 
days he had been going on almost without cessation. He 
asked for a room and went to bed without supper. 

Nevertheless, however great was the pressure upon 
Beppo of fatigue, trouble of mind was yet greater. The 
result was that although he had lain down to rest, and put 
out his lamp, he could not go to sleep. 

The window of his chamber had neither curtains nor 
blinds; the light of the moon penetrated through the glass 
so much the more brightly as it was increased by the reflec- 
tion of the snow that Beppo had found some leagues on 
the other side of Assisa. Beppo then was leaning upon his 
elbow in bed, with his eyes fixed upon that ray of pale light 
which illumined his chamber, when suddenly he heard a 
step on the staircase, that creaked. That step approached 
his door. The door opened. Beppo seized one of the pis- 
tols lying on the candle-stand at the head of his bed, and 
aimed it at the door. 

But upon the threshold appeared a young man wrapped 
in a brown cloak all powdered with snow. The young man 
advanced toward the bed, threw back the cloak that cover- 
ed a portion of his face, and Beppo recognized his friend. 

Beppo threw down his pistol, uttered a cry, and would 
have jumped out of bed, but Gaetano made a sign to him 
with his hand at once sad and imperative. 

Beppo remained speechless, breathless, motionless, his 
eyes frightfully dilated in that night pale as an aurora 
borealis. 

As for Beppo, it was evident that it was the same vision 
that had appeared to him at Monte-Carelli. 

The specter first took off its cloak, then its clothes, sign- 
ing to Beppo to give him the usual place in his bed. 

Then it lay down near him. 

Beppo was altogether so much moved and frightened 
that he kept perfectly still, close to flie edge of the bed. 


MOXSI’EUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 13 ^} 

supporting himself on one hand, and gazing upon his 
friend. 

Then, after an instant: 

Gaetano/’ said he in a low tone, it you? Speak; 
answer!” 

Gaetano kept silence. 

If God,” continued Beppo, “ allows the ordinary laws 
of nature to be disturbed, God has a purpose. Tell me 
what you will, friend, and, by our friendship in this world, 
I will do it.” 

Gaetano made no reply. 

‘‘ Are you dead?” continued Beppo, “ and have you 
come back, by virtue of the oath that we made not to leave 
each other, even after our death? In that case, friend, 
see, I do not shrink from you.” 

As he said these words, Beppo turned to his friend with 
open arms, but uttered a cry, for it seemed to him that he 
was touching a statue of ice. 

Something like a mortal chill had just been communi- 
cated to the body of the living. 

As to the dead, with the same sad smile upon his lips 
which Beppo had already remarked, he got up, put on his 
garments one after the other, and left the room, keeping 
his head constantly turned toward his friend, and waving 
him a farewell with his hand. 

At the moment that Gaetano crossed the threshold of 
the door, Beppo thought that he heard him breathe a long 
sigh. 

Then the sound of steps upon the staircase died away 
with a diminution like to that which they had made in 
coming. 

Oh!” murmured the young man, falling back upon 
his pillow, “ Gaetano is dead! really dead!” 

Whether he swooned or fell into the deep sleep of ex- 
haustion, Beppo did not awake until day-break. A whole 
night had sufficed his horse for rest; he was fresh and ready 
for the road. Beppo then mounted him and proceeded 
without delay. 

So far, at every relay station he had carefully inquired if, 
twenty-four hours before, a young man of from twenty to 
twenty-one years, alone in a carriage, going from Bologna 
to Rome, had not supplied himself with fresh horses there. 

Until now he had had positive information with regard 


13G MONSIEUR DE CITAUVELTN'S WILL. 

to Gaetano. At Foligno and Spoletti the same answer; 
everywhere they had observed the young man traveling 
with his student’s card; he was in good health, and ap- 
peared to be in great haste to reach home. 

However, because of the snow, the road, already bad 
during summer, had become almost impracticable. The 
result of it was that all Beppo was able to accomplish in 
this day was to gain Terni. At Strettura — that is to say, 
two leagues on this side of Terni — the traveler had put his 
usual question, and found that there too Gaetano had been 
seen. 

It was five o’clock in the evening when Beppo arrived at 
Strettura. And when, after receiving the assurance that 
his friend had passed this way, and learning that he had 
kept on his way to Terni, he prepared to do the same; but 
the post-master, to whom he addressed himself, shook his 
head and advised him not to go any further; the road, 
shut in between two chains of the Apennines, was infested 
by a troop of bandits, and each day the report was brought 
in of some terrible exploit performed by these wretches. 

But Beppo had never feared the living, and the idea that 
it was the specter of Gaetano which had appeared to him 
had given to him supernatural strength; he declared then 
that he too was in great haste to reach Rome, and that he 
knew of no dangers capable of stopping him in his course. 

Consequently, he reloaded his pistols, saw to it that his 
sword did not stick to the scabbard, spurred his horse to 
the top of his speed, and plunged into the valley that leads 
from Strettura to Terni. 

Indeed, no locality was more favorable for an ambush. 
Clumps of trees, as tangled as Corsican thickets, lined the 
road-sides; enormous blocks of granite had become de- 
tached from the mountain and rolled to the edge of the 
road. This desolate pathway reminded one of that which 
Dante speaks that crosses chaos and leads to hell. 

Every minute Beppo was expecting to be attacked; but 
indifferent to his own fate, he encountreed with a cool, 
calm eye every manifestation that seemed to threaten a 
surprise. On approaching the spot where danger threat- 
ened, Beppo stooped over the holster of the saddle where 
he kept his pistols. The spot traversed without accident, 
he drew himself up with that smile which bespeaks con- 
tempt for a danger overcome. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 137 

At last he perceived the city lights, and went straight to 
the post station and put his habitual (question. 

But here ceased the information hitherto supplied him 
unfailingly; not only could they give him no news of Gae- 
tano, but said, nioreover, that for nearly fifteen days no 
kind of post-chaise had passed from Terni; the report of 
the ravages committed by that band of robbers concerning 
which Beppo had heard talk at Strettura was causing all 
reasonable travelers to turn back and take the Aquapen- 
dente route. 

Thus Gaetano, having come as far as Strettura, had not 
been seen at Terni. All trace of him disappeared on the 
road that leads from the first to the second of these two 
cities. 

Beppo had remarked, outside of Terni, on the road that 
he had just followed, an inn that seemed a forlorn sentinel 
upon this accursed road. He thought that this inn, bring- 
ing him near to the spot where, according to all probability 
Gaetano had been stopped, he would more surely be able 
to obtain news of him in this isolated inn than in the city. 

Consequently, he turned around and entered that inn, 
which had for its sign: To the Cascade of Terni.’’ 

A post-chaise was drawn up in a corner of the court- 
yard. He thought that he recognized it, and immediately 
made inquiries; but he learned that it belonged to a young 
lady from Eome, who was going to meet her brother or her 
husband, and who had put up there two hours before, upon 
being informed of the danger into which she would run if 
she attempted to cross such a defile by night. 

There Beppo again inquired after his friend; but al- 
though he applied to every one in the hotel, from the mas- 
ter of the house to the stable-boy, he could not hear a word 
about him. 

Beppo both dreaded and longed for the moment when he 
should find himself once more alone. The two apparitions 
which had revealed themselves to him successively on two 
nights, one at Monte-Carelli, the other at Assisa, had taken 
complete hold of his mind; he was persuaded that this 
night would not pass without his once more seeing Gae- 
tano. 

He eat a bite in the common hall, his aim being to listen 
to the conversation going on, in the constant hope of learn- 
ing something about Gaetano; but although little else thaii 


138 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


the doings of robbers was talked of, no detail seemed to fit 
the particular case that alone interested the traveler. 

Then he withdrew to his chamber. There were his last 
fear and his last hope. Human means were failing him; 
undoubtedly supernatural resources were going to come to 
his help. 

Beppo did nothing to provoke a new apparition nor to 
defend himself against it. He undressed, lay down, put 
out his lamp, and went to sleep, committing to God the 
care of his body and soul. 

At eleven o’clock he awoke with a bound. A few min- 
utes elapsed, during which were being dissipated from his 
mind those light clouds that momentarily follow after 
sleep; then he heard the same noise that he had heard the 
night before at Assisa — that is to say, the sounding of a 
footfall causing the stairs to creak. That step, as on the 
night before, drew near his chamber, opened the door, and 
Gaetano appeared. 

Beppo thought that, as he had done the night before, 
the specter was going to undress and lie down by him. He 
experienced a sad gratification in this nearness to a dead 
friend, and was already drawing back so as to yield him 
his place, when the specter signed to him to rise. 

Whether he had not understood, or whether he hesitated, 
Beppo did not immediately obey. 

Then Gaetano drew aside his cloak, that was covered 
with snow. As on the night before, he was naked under 
the cloak, and in his breast was a bloody wound, that he 
pointed at with his finger. Beppo, in desperation, com- 
prehended the whole import, jumped out of bed and dressed 
as fast as he could. 

Standing motionless at the foot of the bed, the specter 
waited for him. 

When Beppo was ready: 

“ Here I am,” said he. What would you have me 
do?” 

Without making any reply, Gaetano made him a sign to 
arm himself. 

Beppo buckled on his sword and stuck his two pistols in 
the belt. 

Is this right?” asked Beppo. 

The specter nodded approval, and while he kept his eyes 
on his friend, to see if he were following, he led the way to 


MOlfSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 139 

the door, smiling sadly as if to encourage Beppo not to be 
afraid of him. 

They thus left the inn, all its doors opening before them, 
or, rather, the specter clearing a way wherever he passed 
that served for both himself and his companion at the same 
time, and which closed again behind them. 

After having followed the road for almost a quarter of 
an hour, the specter took a blind path leading through 
undergrowth and over stones. Beppo came behind him, 
sword in hand, remarking with terror that the steps of the 
phantom made no prints upon the snow, but instead, that 
his blood left a long track behind him. Two or three 
times, indulging the hope that his friend would respond to 
his questions, Beppo addressed to him a few words of affec- 
tion; but every time, as if he was afraid that the sound of 
these words might betray the presence of a living mortal, 
Gaetano carried his finger to his lips, motioning Beppo to 
be silent. 

For that matter, this warning soon became superfluous, 
for in proportion as their path became more mountainous, 
they approached the cascade, and the roar of the water-fall 
was such that two persons could not have heard each other 
talk, no matter how near they were together nor how 
loudly they had spoken. 

But one thing struck Beppo more than aught else — that 
is, the further they went, the more clearly he recognized 
the landscape that he had seen in his dream. Finally that 
landscape was completed by the aspect of the newly cov- 
ered-up ditch that drew a dark line along the vast mantle 
of snow with which the earth was covered. 

Beppo had no more need of explanation. The specter 
of Gaetano had led him to the spot where he had been 
buried. He fell on his knees before the funeral mound, 
praying for his friend. Meanwhile, the specter had re- 
mained standing, and it seemed to Beppo that he joined 
with him in that prayer. 

This pious duty having been performed, Beppo extended 
his sword over the tomb of his friend, and swore to avenge 
his death. Then, having cut with his sword two branches 
from an oak-tree, he fastened them together in the form 
of a cross, and planted that cross upon the ditch. 

By the aid of this trail of blood and that cross he could 
not fail to recognize the tomb and the road leading to it. 


140 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN's WILL. 

Undoubtedly at that moment the specter judged that 
Beppo had done all that was to be done, for not disturbing 
himself about the route pursued, he took another across 
the rocks, looking to see if Beppo continued to follow him. 

The young man, who felt himself impelled by a super- 
natural force, followed the specter in order to interrogate 
him as to what he was to do. The specter had disappeared. 

A moment afterward he heard a sound of steps and voices 
coming from the direction opposite to that which he had 
pursued. 

Beppo retired from the road and hid himself behind a 
rock. There he waited, to learn who the persons were 
who thus imperiled their lives by being in such a place at 
night. 

As the party gradually drew near, he seemed to distin- 
guish the voice of a woman. 

He was not mistaken. In the middle of a group of five 
persons who were following the path that he had just 
quitted, and which led in the direction of Gaetano’s tomb, 
was a woman. 

The other persons were: a sort of faccliino bearing a 
torch, a man clothed in the manner of the mountaineers 
about Rome, and two other men who looked like domes- 
tics. 

The woman was a young girl hardly nineteen years of 
age, dressed all in black; a strange air of resolution sat 
upon her face, and she held a pistol in her hand. 

The two lackeys who seemed to be her suite were each 
armed with a bludgeon and two pistols. 

Neither the mountaineer nor the guide was armed. 

Arrived within a few steps of the spot where Beppo was 
concealed, the little company stood still. 

The young woman refused to go further. 

‘‘ Wretch!” said she, addressing herself to the peasant, 
who seemed to serve as a guide for the little company, I 
consented to follow you, for you promised to lead me to the 
spot where my brother was. See, w^e have been walking 
for two hours. Where is he?” 

‘‘Have patience, signorina,” replied the man; “ weTl 
get there.” 

And he looked around him like a man in search of a 
means for escape. 

“ Remember what I have told you,” resumed the young 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN’S WILL. 141 

girl ill a firm tone, and raising her pistol to a level with 
the young man’s breast: if you try to escape, you are a 
dead man!” 

‘‘Oh! I want nothing of that sort, signorina.” 

And his uneasy movements belied his words. 

“If he takes one step backward,” said the young girl, 
addressing herself to the two lackeys, “ shoot him.” 

“ But where are they? Where are they then?” mur- 
mured the man in despair. 

“ Yes, ^our accomplices fail you,” said the young girl. 
“ Listen: it is not if you try to escape now that you are a 
dead man, it is if you do not answer. You came from 
Home, you brought me this letter from my brother; he 
was a prisoner. The banditti had fixed his ransom at 
twenty thousand crowns. Ten thousand have been handed 
over to you; after a delay of three days ten thousand were 
to be brought to you by a person who could not inspire 
your companions with fear, and to that person my brother 
was to be delivered safe and sound. That person is myself. 
Here are the ten thousand crowns. Where is my brother?” 

At these last words a light fiashed upon Beppo, and he 
understood it all. He therefore left his place of conceal- 
ment and walked straight uj) to the group. 

The young girl thought that the robbers were at hand ; 
but without seeming to experience the least alarm, she 
made a threatening gesture against the supposed bandit. 

But Beppo held out his hand. 

“ You are Bettina Romanoli, sister of Gaetano Ronianoli, 
are you not?” said he. 

“ Yes,” replied the young girl. Then looking at him 
with attention: “ And you,” said she, “ you are Beppo de 
Scamozza.” 

“ Alas! yes, madame, and I have just come from Bo- 
logna, hoping to arrive in time to bring succor to my 
friend.” 

“ And I from Rome with the rest of the sum exacted by 
the brigands who carried him off. This man, who had 
conveyed to them the first part, was to await me at the 
Hotel di Porta Rossa and receive the second; but before 
handing it to him, I have required that my brother should 
be restored to me. Then he offered to guide me to the 
place where Gaetano was awaiting my arrival. I consent- 
ed to it on condition that I should be accompanied by these 


142 MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 

two faithful servants. For the past two hours we have 
been scouring the mountain. Finally 1 have just stopped, 
convinced that this man was betraying us/’ 

That is well. Watch this man more scrupulously than 
ever,” said Beppo to the two servants. 

Then turning toward Bettina: 

It is for me to act as your guide now,” said he. Do 
you trust me?” 

“ Are you not my brother’s best friend?” said Bettina, 
holding out her hand to Beppo. 

“ Let us move on,” said he. 

Beppo again struck into the path that he had just fol- 
lowed, and guided Bettina to the freshly made grave. 
Then pointing it out to her, he said: 

“Bettina, sister, summon up all your courage; there 
lies our brother Gaetano.” 

Bettina uttered a cry and fell upon her knees. 

The man profited by this movement to try and effect his 
escape; but he w^as too well guarded by the two servants 
for this attempt to have any prospect of success. 

Both at the same time aimed their pistols at him, threat- 
ening to shoot him dead. 

At this moment Beppo shuddered, for Gaetano’s ghost 
had just reappeared. 

It was ten steps from the ditch, and made Beppo a sign 
to follow. 

Beppo bowed in token of obedience. 

Then addressing himself to the two servants: 

“ Guard that man,” said he. “ I’ll soon be back.” 

And he followed the specter, that moved off in the direc- 
tion of the cascade. 

At the end of five minutes both followed a path so near 
to the cascade that they were well sprinkled by its spray. 

In five minutes more they had attained the summit of 
the mountain, there where the river which forms the cas- 
cade rolls rapidly and boisterously incased in a sort of canal 
from tw^elve to fifteen feet broad. 

That torrent is impassable • by swimming. Whoever 
should venture into it would be swept away by the current, 
hurled forward like an arrow, and precipitated five hun- 
dred feet below. 

It isolates a part of the mountain. Cut perpendicularly 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 


143 


on all sides, it can only be reached by a bridge thrown over 
the seething abyss. 

The specter stopped in front of the bridge. It was com- 
posed of the trunks of three pine-trees. It had required 
the united strength of twenty men to bring each of these 
pine-trees from the top of the mountain and to lay them 
across the torrent. 

Beppo sought to read in the eyes of the specter the pur- 
pose for which he had brought him there. 

The specter made Beppo climb to the highest peak of 
the mountain, and thence he pointed out to him the dark 
mouth of a cavern lying five or six hundred yards from the 
other side of the torrent. 

From time to time the mouth of this cavern was lighted 
up; then rising above the roar of the cascade issued from 
it drunken shouts and peals of laughter. 

In this cavern the bandits who had killed Gaetano had 
sought an asylum for the night. 

Beppo did not comprehend the design which the specter 
had had in bringing him to the spot where he was; for ac- 
cording to all probability, before he should have returned 
from Terni, bringing with him a body of men able to over- 
come the robbers, it would be day and the bandits have 
changed their retreat. 

Gaetano guessed what was passing in the mind of his 
friend and shook his head. 

“ SpeakI’’ asked Beppo. “Am I to go alone and at- 
tack them by your order? I shall obey without hesitation 
or fear.^’ 

Again Gaetano shook his head, came down from the 
peak, and moved toward the torrent. 

Arrived at the bridge, he signed to Beppo to lift up the 
pines and throw them into the river. 

“ But,^’ said Beppo, “ it would take twenty men of my 
strength to accomplish such a task; for a single man it is 
impossible.” 

The specter made a sign which signified “ Try.” 

Beppo stooped. These words of the Gospel just oc- 
curred to him: 

“ Believe, and by faith thou shalt lift mountains.” 

He firmly believed, bent forward, seized one of the pine 
logs by its end, raised it, and without more difficulty than 
an ordinary joist would have cost him, he let the pine drop 


144 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


into the river, which bore it off as if it had been a blade of 
grass. 

He did the same with the second, then with the third. 

Then he listened. 

And successively, like three cannon-shots, he heard, 
above the sound of the cascade the noise of the fall of the 
three giants. 

The bridge was destroyed; the bandits were prisoners. 

Perhaps in the midst of their orgy they too had heard 
that dull and threatening sound; but undoubtedly they 
took it for some one of those accidental noises that during 
the night season awaken the echo of the mountains. 

Then Gaetano resumed the path by which they had 
come, the same that led back to the grave. At the end of 
ten minutes, Beppo, who was walking behind him, caught 
sight of the little party in exactly the same spot in wliich 
he had left them. 

The torch of the faccliino cast its light upon Bettina, 
who was still engaged in prayer, and the two domestics 
were still guarding the robber. 

Beppo turned toward the specter, to learn of it what he 
was to do; but without doubt the supernatural work was 
accomplished. Gaetano gave a gesture of farewell, and 
opened his arms as if to appeal to his friend. Beppo 
rushed into his open arms, but the specter eluded him like 
a vapor, heaved a sigh, and vanished. 

Then Beppo sadly descended the path until he came up 
to Bettina. 

‘‘ Madame,’’ said he to her, “ you know all now, do you 
not? Let us go back to Terni, and to-morrow we shall 
have the body of our unhappy friend exhumed that we may 
pay it the last honors.” 

But,” asked the young girl, ‘Ms it enough for the con- 
solation of his spirit that his body will rest in consecrated 
soil? Must w^e not also think of avenging his murder?” 

“ Vengeance is already accomplished, madame,” said 
Beppo. 

And he related what he had just done. 

“But that is impossible,” exclaimed the robber, who had 
listened to this recital with the terror of a condemned man. 
“ It would take twenty men to lift each one of those pines 
that form the bridge.” 




MONSIEUR OE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 145 

And taking again the road indicated by the track of 
blood that Gaetano had left upon the snow, and that he 
alone saw, he led the little company back to the H6tel di 
Porta Rossa. 

There the robber, being handed over to the hands of 
justice, confessed that the moment he returned with the 
first ten thousand crowns a quarrel had arisen among the 
bandits as to the partition of that sum. Then one of these 
wretches, finding himself less well endowed than the others, 
had stabbed Gaetano, in order to deprive the captain of the 
second part of the sum. 

It was then, so as not to lose the second part, that the 
bandit had offered to guide the young girl to the place, 
where, believing that she would meet her brother, she 
would fall into an ambuscade by which her life and money 
would both be lost. But Bettina’s courage and the menac- 
ing attitude of the two servants had changed the course of 
the drama. The bandit, feeling that death would be the 
immediate forfeit to pay for his treason, instead of going 
to rejoin his companions in the cavern, had wandered 
about a part of the night, always hoping to find an oppor- 
tunity for escape. 

The sudden appearance of Beppo had deprived him of 
this last hope. 

The next day the disinterment of Gaetano’s body had 
taken place in presence of the clergy of Terni and a body 
of soldiers. 

The corpse had in the breast that broad and deep wound 
which the specter had shown to Beppo. 

As to the bandits, as it was known that they had no 
means of escape but by the pine-tree bridge, and that 
bridge was destroyed, no attempt even was made to capture 
them. The ground was covered with snow and offered them 
no resource. It is supposed that they died of starva- 
tion. 

The bodies of three of them, who had tried to swim 
across the torrent, were found battered and bruised upon 
the rocks of the cascade. 

As to the body of Gaetano, it was conveyed to Rome, es- 
corted by Bettina, Beppo, and the two faithful servants. 

One year afterward, in fulfillment of Gaetano’s wish^ 
Beppo became the husliand of Bettina. 


UQ 


310KSIEUR DE CHAUVELIIs'S WILL. 


XV L 

THE GENTLEMEN OF THE SIERRA-MORENA. 

What attracted me when I began this book, which had 
no precedent in the twenty years of my literary life that 
have already expired, was,*^ above everything, the oppor- 
tunity that it afforded me of diving into the inner life, 
worn out as I often am with actual life. 

When I write a novel, or compose a drama, I naturally 
submit to the exigencies of the age in which my scene is 
laid. Places, men, events, are imposed upon me by the 
inexorable exactness of topography, genealogy, and dates; 
the language, costume, and manners even of my characters 
must be in harmony with the ideas that one has conceived 
of the epoch that I am trying to depict. My imagination 
clashing with reality, like a man who visits the ruins of a 
destroyed monument, is forced to stride over fallen col- 
umns, to follow corridors, and stoop beneath postern doors 
in order to find again, or nearly so, the plan of the edifice 
at the period when life dwelt there, when joy filled it with 
songs and laughter, or grief demanded of it an echo for 
sobs and lamentations. Amid all these researches, these 
investigations and necessities, the ego disappears; I become 
an individual made up of Froissart, Monstrelet, Chastelain, 
Oommynes, Saulx-Tavannes, Montluc, Estoile, Tallemant 
des Reaux, and St. Simon; what talent I have is substitut- 
ed for what individuality I may possess; learning for fervor 
of imagination; I cease to be an actor in the great romance 
of my own life, in that grand drama of my own sensations; 
I become a chronicler, annalist, or historian; I teach to 
my contemporaries the events of days gone by, the impres- 
sions that these events have produced upon the personages 
who have really lived, or whom 1 have created with my 
fancy. But of the impressions made by every-day events, 
those terrible events of the earth beneath our feet, which 
darken the sky overhead, of the impressions that these 
events have made upon me, I am prohibited from saying 
anything at all. Of the friendships of Edward III., the 
hatreds of Louis XL, the caprices of Charles IX., the pas- 
sions of Henry IV., the weaknesses of Louis XIII., the 
love affairs of Louis XIV., I tell everything; but of the 


MONSIEUR DE CHArVELIN’S WILL. 147 

friendships that comfort my heart, the hatreds that imbit- 
ter my mi nil, the caprices that have their origin in my own 
imagination; of my own passions, weaknesses, and love 
affairs, I dare not speak. I make my reader acquainted 
with a hero who has existed a thousand years ago, and I, 
the author, remain unknown to him. I make him love or 
hate at pleasure the persons for whom I choose to evoke 
his love or hatred, and yet to myself personally he remains 
indifferent. Well, there is something sad about this, some- 
thing unjust against which I want to struggle. I will try 
to be more to the reader than a mere narrator of whom 
each one makes a picture to suit himself in the mirror of 
his fancy. I should like to become a live, palpable being, 
mingling in the life whose hours I take up, something like 
~a friend; in short, so familiar to every one that when 
he enters, wheresoever it may be, in the cottage as well 
as the castle, there will be no need to introduce him to any 
one, because upon first sight he is recognized by all. 

Thus it seems to me, I should die less; the tomb would 
accept me as dead, but my books would keep me alive. 
In a hundred, two hundred, in a thousand years, when 
manners, customs, languages, races even, when all shall 
have changed, with one of my volumes that, perchance, 
shall have survived, I myself shall survive like one of those 
shipwrecked mariners who is found upon a plank in the 
middle of the ocean, which has swallowed up the ship that 
carried him together with the other passengers. 

Alas I all these reflections came to me in connection with 
a date. I had begun this chapter with these words: 

On November 3d, 1846, about four o’clock in the 
afternoon, I entered Cordova with my son and my dear 
ffood traveling companions, Maquet, Giraud, Boulanger, 
and Desbarolles. ” 

And I added: We came from Madrid, where we had 
parted from the Duke of Montpensier, and we were going 
to Algiers, where we were expected by Marshal Bugeaud.” 

I wrote these lines at ten o’clock this morning — that is, 
June 10th, 1849. My door opened, and some one came in 
and said to me : 

Marshal Bugeaud is dead!” 

Hardly three years have passed away, and lo! he whom 
we left behind is exiled, and he whom we were going to 
join is dead. 


148 


MOls^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIK’S WILL. 


Ah, well I Is it not quite natural, I ask my readers, 
that to-day, instead of creating for them some new or un- 
known personage, and that by forcing my mind, and con- 
straining my heart, I should speak to them of what is in 
and not outside of me, and that I should converse a little 
with them about that charming youth — for when he left us 
he was hardly a man — and yet he said to me, while he 
offered me his hand, after the death of his elder brother: 

‘‘ One having been taken away, the other is left.’’ 

And of that old soldier of Austerlitz, Tarragon, Con- 
flans, Tortose, Castille, Orval, Tafna, Sikkah, and Tsly, 
who, like Cincinnatus, had taken for his device, “ With 
sword and plow.” 

When the Duke of Orleans died in a manner so fatal 
and unexpected, my first feeling was not to curse chance 
but to question God. 

Often it is at the moment when God seems to withdraw 
His hand from the affairs of earth that, ever mindful of our 
globe. He impresses upon it some one of those decisive 
movements that change the face of society. 

It is not without design that a prince who has made him- 
self the darling of a people, who bears in his hand the fort- 
unes of France, and molds into his thought the future of 
the world, goes out one morning alone in an open carriage, 
is run off with by two horses, his head being dashed against 
the paving-stones with such force that death ensues, the 
animals stopping of themselves a hundred yards beyond the 
spot where they had killed him. 

I wrote at the same time: “ If Providence had not had 
in view the good of humanity in general by permitting the 
death of the Duke of Orleans, Providence would "have 
committed a crime; and how ally those two words ‘ crime ’ 
and ‘ Providence.’ ” 

No, Providence had decreed that monarchies should draw 
toward their end. • Already it had been written on the 
bronze book of destiny the date of the coming republic,, 
which I had predicted to the king himself in 1832. Well, 
Providence found an obstacle in the way of its designs; it 
was the popularity of the soldier-prince, the poet-prince,, 
the artist-prince. Providence overthrew the obstacle, so 
that, the time being ripe, nothing but a void was found be- 
tween the throne which was crumbling away and the repub- 
lic about to be born. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 149 

Well, it is my profound conviction that it was just so 
with regard to the eminent man who has recently died, the 
fiat having gone forth from Him who rules over individuals, 
nations, and worlds. Marshal Bugeaud was an obstacle in 
the way of the nascent republic. God struck by a blow 
equally unexpected the man of resistance and the prince of 
progress, and both are dead, one carrying away with him 
the future, the other the past. 

I had not seen the marshal since our trip to Algiers, 
when, eight days ago, I met him at the mansion of the 
president, upon whom I had been so slow in paying this 
first call that it required nothing less than the memories of 
the Chateau de Ham to procure my pardon for having been 
so oblivious of the palace of L’Elysee. 

The marshal arrived at Paris. He was too far off down 
there for death to overtake him; he came to meet it. 

He perceived me, beckoned me to him, and drew me 
into the recess of a window. 

“ Well, Mr. Poet,^’ said he to me, “ what do you think 
of all that is going on now?^^ 

“ ITl tell you, marshal: that I think that we are shoot- 
ing the rapids, and wasting our strength in going up the 
river that we ought to be going down.’^ 

“ Pshaw! It is not possible that you have turned social- 
ist?’^ 

“ I have never turned, marshal; but have always been 
one. What I think now I wrote out ten months ago. One 
neither hastens nor retards the march of nations; one fol- 
lows it. If one hurries it, one is deceived, as the Czar Peter 
I, was deceived with regard to Eussia. If one retards it, 
one is deceived, as King Louis Philippe was deceived with 
regard to France. Social movement has its laws, as ter- 
restrial movement has hers. Blind is he who, with eyes 
fixed upon the sun, believes that it is the sun that moves 
and the earth that remains motionless.” 

That is to say, that we are reactionaries — ” 

“Will the marshal permit me to tell him my whole 
thought?” 

“ Why, of course.” 

“ Well, you are the man who would reassure me most 
on the other side of the Alps, and who frightens me most 
in this salon.” 

“ And why is that?” 


150 


MOXSTEUR DE CHAUVELIK’S -WILL. 


Because he in whose house we are is already too ready 
for the fray; and if he has for allies men of your caliber, 
he will wrestle. Now, this wrestling reminds me of that 
of Jacob and the angel. The angel will triumph.’’ 

‘‘ The exterminating angel, then?” 

‘‘ No; the reconstructing angel, on the contrary.” 

‘‘ You would like us to be dragged away by the move- 
ment?” 

“ I want better than that — I want you to direct it. 
There is always something for every living being to do; 
there is nothing for the dead to do. What lives is the pres- 
ent and future; what is dead is the past. Well, you throw 
yourself into the past when you have the future. This was 
the mistake of Charles X.; it was the mistake of Louis 
Philippe. I am very much afraid that it may also be that 
of Louis Napoleon.” 

“ Did you say that to the Duke of Orleans?” 

“ Certainly, I told him so.” 

‘‘ And do you think that if he had become king he would 
have followed your advice?” 

If he had become king, neither Europe nor France 
would have been in the position in which they now are, 
since, if he had become king, a new revolution would not 
have taken place.” 

“ February 24th is an accident that might have been 
foreseen and avoided.” 

‘‘ The 24th of February, like all great convulsions, came 
true to its hour. The 24th of February is not only the 
French Eevolution, but the revolution of the world. Cast 
your eyes over Europe at the three different eiDOchs — on 
January 21st, 1793, on July 29th, 1830, and on February 
24'h, 1848 — and behold what progress republican ideas 
have made in sixty years. In 1793 all the people called 
by us to emancipation rise in revolt against us. In 1830 a 
few are aroused, stirred, and prepare for combat; but the 
struggle is partial, brief, and very soon repressed. In 
1848 it is a pathway of flame that starts at Paris, follows 
the Ehine, gains the Danube, extends as far south as the 
Tiber, as far north as the Vistula. Eight days after the 
French Eepublic was proclaimed, two thirds of Europe 
were on fire, and this time see how the conflagration 
spreads instead of being extinguished. It is no longer con- 
stitutions that the people demand; they claim liberty in 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 151 

all its fullness. Everywhere the word republic is pro- 
nounced. At Berlin, Vienna, Florence, Rome, Palermo, 
the people have broadened in their views; they have be- 
come strong in body and thought; they no longer want 
royal guardians. Well, there was no time to hesitate. 
He had to put himself at the head of the people; he had to 
do more with that one thought than Napoleon had done 
with the sword. He had failed in the conquest of bodies; 
he had now to try that of souls. Believe me that was a 
fine crusade to^ be preached by the first president of the 
French Republic, viz., that of universal liberty, a grand 
alliance to found, that alliance of peoples.^’ 

“ And Proudhon, Leroux, Considerant, and their fel- 
lows, what did you do with them?’’ 

“ Nothing. I exalted events in a manner that they 
could not attain to. Believe me, there be some who cross 
with impunity the little stream in the Rue St. Antoine or 
the Canal St. Martin who would be drowned in the Rhine 
or the Danube.” 

Then you disapprove of our expedition to Rome?” 

“ Certainly I do; for to be of avail, your expedition 
would have need of two antecedents — you should say to the 
Austrians: ‘You shall not cross the Piedmont frontier;’ 
you should say to the Russians: ‘ You shall not enter Hun- 
gary.’ Then you would have the right to turn to the 
Romans and say to them : ‘ Rome is not the capital of a 
people — Rome is the capital of Christianity. The pope 
is not a king like other kings — he is the vicar of Christ. 
Rome does not belong to you, since it is the Catholic world 
which has made Rome great, rich, splendid. The pope 
does not belong to you, since it is not the Roman states 
that make the pope King of Rome, but a universal coun- 
cil. Finally, you would have to ally yourselves every- 
where, not with men, but with principle, and this princi- 
ple should be the one by which you live, think, and act.” 

“ What you propose there would be universal war.” 

“ Universal war, it may be, but at least it would be the 
last universal war. See how men grow with their ideas; 
see those Hungarians, a poor people numbering not more 
than eight or nine millions of men; see them raising an 
army of five hundred thousand soldiers, with two thousand 
four hundred cannon; see them with generals, gold, iron, 
everything in which they had been supposed to be lacking. 


152 >I0NS1EUR DE CHAUVELIK’S WILL. 

Behold them whipping the Austrians with one hand and 
the Kussians with the other. See Venice, the voluptuous 
city, the commercial city, the city of marble palaces, rich 
Stuffs and nightly serenades; behold her become war-like, 
behold her sustaining a siege of eighteen months, she 
whom one did not deem worthy of an assault. AVell, these 
Were our genuine allies, these Piedmontese who are ran- 
somed, these Lombards who are oppressed, these Vene- 
tians who are bombarded, these battling Hungarians* We 
found there among the people six hundred allies whom 
Napoleon at the zenith of his power never found among 
kings; and of these trusty allies, these faithful friends, who 
would not have betrayed us at Hainault or abandoned us at 
Leipsic, for their interests were identical with our own. 
JStop, marshal. I see the president looking for you. Let 
me make a last wish for you; it is that you may beat 
Badetski at Marengo and get yourself killed at Salsbach; a 
victory such as Napoleon was wont to win, a bullet re- 
ceived like Turenne, that would be a beautiful close to a 
noble life.’’ 

He pressed my hand. 

And he responded to the sign given him by the presi- 
dent. 

These, then, are the reflections that came to me upon 
writing these lines: 

“ On November 3d, 1846, about four o’clock in the 
afternoon, I entered Cordova with my son and my dear, 
kind traveling companions, Maquet, Giraud, Boulanger, 
and JDesbarolles. We came from Madrid, where we had 
left the Duke of Montpensier, and we were going to Al- 
giers, where Marshal Bugeaud was awaiting our arrival.” 

It was after a three-days’ journey on mule-back, after a 
day of such excessive heat that Alexander’s horse, having 
fallen under him, could not be got up, and actually ex- 
pired. 

We feared detention at the custom-house — very severe at 
Cordova, we had been told; but on reading my name upon 
my trunks, the Spanish custom-house officers, who are well- 
read men, asked if I were the author of ‘‘ The Three 
Guardsmen” and "‘The Count of Monte-Cristo,” and 
upon my answering in the affirmative, they declared that 
they would take my simple word for it that I was not ear- 
rying with me any contraband articles. 


MO^-SIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 153 

Consequently they had graciously accosted me, and we 
had gone on our way to the post station hotel. 

It goes without saying that Cordova, like all cities that 
one has been seeing in imagination for twenty years, and 
that one sees at last some fine day in reality, does not at 
all correspond to the idea that one has formed of it. The 
disenchantment had begun the moment that we first 
caught sight of it, had continued in the streets, and had 
accompanied us as far as the hotel. 

It was our own fault. Why, some of the party had pict- 
ured it as a Roman city, others as an Arabian city, and 
lastly some as a Gothic town! Since we were in Spain, we 
should have expected to see a Spanish city, and none would 
have been disappointed. 

Oh! very genuinely Spanish, from its rough pavements 
to its chimneyless roofs, with its trellised balconies and its 
green blinds. Beaumarchais had divined Cordova when 
he composed his Barber of Seville. 

But what had struck me as I gradually approached the 
ancient capital of the Saracenic kingdom, was not its 
Christian cathedral, was not its Moorish mosque, nor its 
three or four palm-trees waving their fan-like leaves; no, 
it was the magnificent line that the chain of the Sierra- 
Morena traced to the rear of the city, which stood out 
white against a background of deep blue. 

Those mountains! To climb them was the height of 
my ambition. 

From the time that we had set foot upon Spanish soil 
they had promised us sport — hunting stags, boars, and rob- 
bers. 

At Ville-Major we thought that we saw robbers, but we 
had seen neither stags nor boars. 

If we lost this opportunity that the Black Mountains 
offered us to see these three things combined, it is evident 
that it would never recur to us. 

I was preoccupied, then, with but one thing. While my 
companions were organizing plans for sight-seeing in the 
city, I was meditating upon the way to accomplish an ex- 
cursion into the mountains. 

Sight-seeing within the city limits had alone been ar- 
ranged for. People knew of my being in Spain, and right- 
ly concluded that I would not quit Spain without visiting 
Cordova. Now, all the young men of letters at Cordova, 


154 


MO^^SIEUR BE OTTAUVELT^^'S WILL. 


gentlemen or bankers, having visited France, all these had 
flocked to the hotel to offer us their services — services which 
we had accepted with the same cordiality as they were 
offered. 

Streets, churches, museums, palaces, private houses, 
then all were expecting us, each door promising to fly open 
at the first sight of us. But the Sierra-Morena, which has 
no doors, the Sierra-Morena was pitilessly closed against us. 

When these gentlemen, all hunters, had examined my 
guns, I had indeed spoken of a hunt on the mountain; but 
I had seen imprinted upon all their faces so many different 
expressions, all signifying: “ A hunt in the Sierra-Morena! 
Ah, yes! Impossible! A hunt — but you are mad!’^ that 
without retracting the proposition I had insisted no more. 

But one remembrance came back to me, and, like Satan, 
my pride was kindled. One of my friends traveling among 
the Druses had found in the road, borne there by the 
mountain-breeze, a copy of the Journal cles Dehats signed 
by me, and entitled ‘‘ The Chateau of If.’’ I was known, 
then, at Acre, Damascus, and Baalbec, since they read my 
publications. I was known at Cordova, since the custom- 
house officers let my trunks pass without opening them. 
Why should I not be known in the Sierra-Morena? 

And if I were known in the Sierra-Morena, why should 
it not happen to me as it had happened to Ariosto with 
Duke Alphonse’s bandits? 

It was to be tried, and, above all, it was very tempting. 

Now, while my friends were compassing the city, I got 
mine host to come up to my room, and having invited him 
to sit down opposite to me and reflect well before replying 
to me, as became a grave and sensible Spaniard, I asked of 
him : 

‘‘ Is there any way of being put into communication with 
the gentlemen of the Sierra-Morena?” 

Mine host looked hard at me. 

“ Are you recommended to them?” asked he. 

No.” 

“ The devil! Then it will be difficult.” 

So you think there is no way of communicating with 
them?” 

“ Yes; everything is possible. What is your wish?” 

“ To send a letter to them.” 

‘‘ I’ll undertake to procure the agent.” 


MONSIEUK DE CHAUVELIK^S WILL. 


155 


Will he bring back the answer?’’ 

“ Faithfully.” 

And if these gentlemen of the Sierra give their word, 
will they keep it?” 

I do not think that there is a single example of their 
having failed in it.” 

“ Then one can act according as their answer may be?” 

‘‘ In all confidence.” 

Give me paper, pen, and ink, and then procure for me 
the agent.” 

Mine host brought me the articles asked for, and I 
wrote : 

To the Gentlemen of the Sierra- Morena : 

“ An admirer of the immortal Cervantes, who unfortu- 
nately did not write ‘ Don Quixote,’ but who would gladly 
give the best of his novels to have written it, desiring to 
know if the Spain of 1846 is still that of 1580, begs the 
gentlemen of the Sierra to let him know if he will be wel- 
come among them in case that he should venture to ask 
their hospitality and permission to take a hunt with them 
on the mountain. 

‘‘ He has four traveling companions who share his desire 
to visit the Sierra. But according to the answer that he 
awaits will he come alone or accompanied. He presents 
his best compliments to the gentlemen of the Sierra-Mo- 
rena.” 

And I signed my name. 

A quarter of an hour afterward the letter was sealed, 
mine host entered with a sort of shepherd. 

‘‘ Here is your man,” said he to me. 

How much does he ask?” 

“ Whatever you choose.” 

“ When will he return?” 

“ When he can.” 

I gave him two duoros and the letter. 

‘‘ Is he satisfied with that?” asked I of mine host. 

Mine host questioned him. 

‘‘ Yes,” said he, he is satisfied.” 

‘‘ Well, on his return, and if he brings me back a letter, 
he shall have two more duoros.” 

The messenger made a sign that all was well. He had 
understood what I said. 


15 G 3I0NSIEUE DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

Then he added a few words in a dialect so peculiar that 
I could make nothing of them. 

He asks/’ said mine host, in case that he should re- 
turn in the night if he is to wait until morning, or awaken 
you.” 

He is to wake me up, no matter what the hour may 

be.” 

All right.” 

Both went out. 

My friends returned. I did not tell them a word of 
what had passed. I waited. 

During the night of the next day, toward one o’clock of 
the day after the morrow, I heard a knock at my door. 

I went to open it. There were mine host and my mes- 
senger. The latter held a letter in his hand. 

Eagerly I took possession of the letter and unsealed it. 

The noise had awakened my companions. We five occu- 
pied three rooms opening one into the other. 1 saw some 
then raise themselves, leaning on their elbows, and others 
passing their heads through the openings of the doors, all 
questioning me with their eyes. 

“ Gentlemen,” said I, on turning around, you are in- 
vited to a grand hunt in the Sierra-Morena.” 

“ By whom?” 

Why, by those who live there, of course.” 

‘‘ What! by the — ” 

Hush!” said Alexander, ‘‘ let us not call things, and 
more especially men, by their names. We’ll leave that to 
Boileau.” 

“ Impossible!” said the five other voices in chorus. 

‘‘ But here is the letter.” 

‘ Mr. Alexander Dumas may come, accompanied by 
nine persons. He will be expected at the fountain of the 
battlemented house on the 7th instant, from five to six 
o’clock in the morning. 

‘‘ ‘ We shall receive him in the best way that we can, 
and have the finest possible hunt with him. 

“ ‘ It is useless for him to trouble himself as to the beat- 
ers-up and the dogs. 

‘‘ ‘ From the Sierra, November 5th, 1846. 

‘ On the part of myself and my companions, 

‘ The Torero/ 


MOJ^SIEUR DE CHAUVELIJ!^'S WILL. 157 

What say you to that?’’ 

Hurrah for the robbers of the Sierra-Morenal” shout- 
ed the whole set of them. 

Yes; but as, in order to be at the meet designated, we 
shall have to set out to-morrow at two o’clock in the morn- 
ing, let us go to sleep now.” 

And I gave the messenger the two other douros, who 
agreed to come back on the morrow, in the course of the 
day, to see if we had need of a guide. 

Early the next morning I had our Cordovan friends noti- 
fied that I had news of the highest importance to commu- 
nicate to them. They lost no time in putting in an ap- 
pearance. 

Two of them were young men twenty-five or twenty-six 
years old, one being named Paroldo, and the other Her- 
nandez de Cordoba. 

The first was the son of a rich banker in the city, the 
other a nobleman enjoying his fortune, which was valued 
at a hundred thousand reals a year. 

The third was a man of thirty-five or thirty-six years of 
age, a citizen of Cordova, noted for high living and high 
spirits, always ready for everything provided that the ques- 
tion were of women, feasting, or the chase. 

His name was Raves. 

When they were all together, I told them of the advance 
that I had made to the gentlemen of the Sierra, and com- 
municated to them the answer which I had received. 

They looked at each other, after having read. 

‘‘ Well,” said Paroldo, ‘‘ what say you to it, Hernan- 
dez? And you. Raves?’ 

“I? I say it is splendid!” 

Is the rendezvous for to-morrow morning?” asked 
Paroldo. 

For to-morrow morning, you see.” 

Well, let us all make ready for to-morrow morning.” 

‘‘You see no inconvenience in this expedition?” 

“ How? — as to danger?” 

“None.” 

“You see, I am not willing that a fancy of mine should 
drag you into too adventurous an expedition.” 

“Oh! from the moment that the word of these gentle- 
men has been given, you will be in as great security among 


158 MOKSIEUK DE CHAUVELIN' S WILL. 

them as you are here in this hotel, and we in the bosom of 
our families.’’ 

‘‘ Is there any use in my taking my messenger?” 

What for?” 

To serve as our guide.” 

“Oh! that is useless, for we all know the road. Only 
you have a right to take nine persons, have you not? You 
have four companions, which, with us three, makes eight. 
There remains one person to be invited. Have you cast 
your eyes upon any one?” 

“ Upon no one. I only know you three men in Cor- 
dova, as you are well aware.” 

“ Then, if you have no objection, we shall invite one of 
our friends, who is a little of an outlavv. You will see that 
he is not going to be useless to us.” 

“ Invite him. Now, we must busy ourselves about the 
horses, mules, asses, and provisions.” ::: 

“ Permit us to make all these details our affair.” 

“ On one condition.” 

“ Unconditionally.” 

“ Be it so. I am your guest. Do as you will. ” 

“ To-night, at two a. m., the horses will be at the door 
of the hotel.” 

“ Bravo!” 

We separated. Two hours afterward the whole city 
knew of the projected expedition. 

My messenger came to ask if I would accept his services 
as guide. I thanked him, and gave him a third gratuity. 

Then I called up my poor Paul. 

Those who have read my trip to Spain or my voyage to 
Africa are acquainted with Paul. For the sake of those 
who have read neither of those two works, I will tell who 
Paul was in a few words. 

He was a handsome young Arab from Sennaar, who, 
while still a child, had left the banks of the river Kahab to 
come to Europe. He was twenty or twenty-two years old, 
and was to die near me in my own house when only twenty- 
three years of age. 

Poor Paul! I did not suspect when I made of him one 
of the most comical characters of my journeys into Africa 
and Spain that I should have to mourn his loss before my 
pen had traced the last word of those travels. 

Paul was born to be the steward of a wealthy home, 


MOITSIEUR DE CHAUVELTX’S WILL. 


159 


His air was distinguished. In the midst of the other do- 
mestics he had the air of a negro prince born to rule but 
reduced to captivity. 

He had, it is true, a few little faults that detracted from 
these lofty qualities; but I have no longer the heart to 
speak of these defects. Besides, those who would like to 
make Paul’s acquaintance, and feel as if they had seen 
him, have only to read the impressions of travel entitled 
“ From Paris to Cadiz.” 

I had Paul to come, then, and said to him : 

‘‘ Paul, we are invited to-morrow to a chase by the gen- 
tlemen robbers of the Sierra-Morena. We shall stay two 
or three days with them. Prepare all that is needful for 
such an excursion.” 

Paul was never astonished; he only asked: 

‘‘ Will silver plate be needed?” 

I traveled with a small chest of silver — enough for a 
dozen covers. 

“To be sure, my dear,” replied I. “It is an experi- 
ment that I am making.” 

“ Then, for those three days, sir, please take account of 
the silver, and relieve me of the responsibility.” 

“ Yes, Paul; be easy.” 

“All right, sir, you may depend upon me; at two 
o’clock in the morning everything will be ready.” 

Upon that assurance I retired at ten o’clock in the even- 
ing. 

At two o’clock in the morning I was awakened by such 
a rumpus as I have barely heard. 

One would have said that it was the tramping of a regi- 
ment of cavalry in the court. 

It was, in fact, something that resembled it strongly. 

There were fifteen asses, horses, and mules, accompanied 
by their drivers. 

I have never seen a more picturesque scene than the one 
presented by that court when we went down. 

It was one of those great square courts with arcades fur- 
nishing a shelter against rain, and extending over the four 
faces of the building. 

The center was filled by an immense orange-tree as large 
as an oak. 

Under this shelter our asses and mules were stamping, 
lighted by a dozen torches borne by the drivers. 


IGO MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

The flame of these torches played upon all the luminous 
points of the equipment of the animals and the costume of 
the men, then was lost in the dense, dark foliage of the 
orange-tree, from the midst of which shone its golden 
fruit. 

Two mules were laden with provisions, a third carried 
baggage, and upon this third one, Paul, in Arabic cos- 
tume, was already installed. 

Two A^ndalusian horses, one white, the other dun, with 
their riders in hunting costume, a gun at the horse’s crop- 
per, and a dagger in the belt, were waiting for us. 

These were for Hernandez and Raves. 

Paroldo was mounted in order to hasten our movements, 
and gave his orders like the general of an army. In all 
that caravan a magniflcent white ass, with a red velvet 
saddle, tall, proud, and impatient as a horse, attracted my 
eye by his magnificent carriage, and enabled me to com- 
prehend the continual praise that Sancho Panza bestowed 
upon his beast, and wiiich heretofore had struck me as ex- 
aggerated. 

As soon as I appeared. Raves and Hernandez alighted, 
and with the formal courtesy which belongs only to Span- 
iards, offered me their horses; but Paroldo had forestalled 
them, announcing that the famous white ass was destined 
for my use. 

The caravan was put in motion. I have never seen any- 
thing more grotesque than that long serpent winding its 
w^ay by night through the streets of Cordova, every now 
and then flushed with light when some opening accidentally 
admitted the moon’s rays. 

The two horses marched ' at the head, then came the 
white ass, using every exertion to keep the first rank. Be- 
hind the white ass straggled along in the capricious inde- 
pendence of their gait, ten or so ordinary donkeys, without 
saddles, bridles, or thongs, with a simple cloth thrown over 
their backs and fastened under the belly. Of spurs there 
was no more question than of thongs, bridles, and saddles. 
Lastly, two or three mules laden with our provisions and 
luggage ended the column and formed a rear guard. 

At a quarter of a league from the city the young man 
Raves, Paroldo, and Hernandez had been commissioned to 
invite, joined us. He rode a piebald horse, and wore the 
costume of the Manchegos — that is to say, the vest, panta- 


iMOJq-SIEUR DE CHAUVELIIs^’S WILL. 101 

loons, and cap of goat-skin, the hair turned outside. This 
costume gave him a wild look that added its share of the 
picturesque to that already possessed by our caravan. 

The ground that separated Cordova from the foot of the 
mountains appeared to me, as well as I could judge of it by 
the light of the moon, veined like a huge tablet of red mar- 
ble; everywhere ravines, dug by the heat, cracked the tor- 
mented earth, and the road across the plain followed a 
devious track imposed upon it by the caprices of the soil. 

Every minute or so we heard the sound of a falling body 
and a gun going off in the fall. We turned around and 
perceived an ass without its rider nibbling a blade of grass 
or browsing upon a thistle; then in the shadow a mass, 
shapeless at first, that very soon lengthened out and stood 
up, resuming the aspect of a man, took his place again 
upon the back of the complaisant animal that took up his 
cavalier again, only upon the well-understood condition 
that he would be rid of him again at the first opportunity. 

When we came to the first slopes of the Sierra it was 
nearly four o’clock, the moon shining with a luster vivid 
enough to enable one to read a letter by it. No sound was 
to be heard. The mountain seemed to receive us with a 
religious silence; from time to time, upon the last limits 
of the plain, we saw, gleaming under a silvered ray, some 
country house embowered in a forest of orange-trees, the 
perfume from which mingled with that little morning 
breeze which an hour before sunrise gently kisses the s^ur- 
face of the earth, and seems like the last sigh of night. 

As we gradually approached the mountain, the white ex- 
tremity of the road which we followed seemed to be swal- 
lowed up under an overshadowing arch, that might well be 
compared to a crouching monster occupied in devouring a 
serpent. 

This gaping mouth was the continuation of the route, 
which from a road became a path, and on both sides arose 
a sort of forest growth composed of green shrubs and oaks, 
the branches of which met overhead, forming that threat- 
ening cavity which was making ready to swallow us up. 

We went into it feeling instinctively that we were quit- 
ting civilized for savage regions, and that this line crossed, 
we had no other protection to ask for than our own. 

After going about fifty yards over this hilly ascent, a sin- 
gular circumstance struck us. It was this: the road was 


1G2 MOKSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 

edged by crosses bearing inscriptions. To the first and 
second of these crosses we paid no attention; but coming 
to the third, fourth, and fifth, we asked what they signi- 
fied. 

Our four Cordovans laughed aloud at our simplicity. 

‘‘ Get down and read/’ Faroldo said to me. 

I was preparing to get down, but perceived that I would 
be taking useless trouble, seeing that one of these crosses, 
nailed to the trunk of a tree, was easily within the range 
of my vision. It was surmounted by a consecrated bunch 
of boxwood, and in white letters was to be read on the 
transverse beam this inscription : 

En esto sitio fu asacinado el Conde Roderigo de 
Torrejas, anno 1845.” 

Which signified: 

In this place was assassinated Count Roderigo de 
Torrejas, in the year 1845.” 

Ten steps beyond was a second inscription. 

This second one was yet more concise than the first. It 
contained only these words: 

Aqui fu asacinado su hi jo Hernandez de Torrejas.” 

There were nearly ten j^-ards between these two inscrip- 
tions. 

The second read thus: 

Here was assassinated his son, Hernandez de Torrejas.” 

What a terrible tragedy must have been enacted within 
this small space while the son witnessed the murder of his 
father or the father that of the son. 

I had our comrades to read the inscription as well. 

Gentlemen,” said I, ‘‘ there is still time for you to re- 
turn to Cordova.” 

The word “ Forward I” was the only answer of the cara- 
van, which continued its onward course. 

Upon this route alone, in the space of a quarter of a 
league, we counted eighteen crosses. 

The path ascended by a steeper grade, and in proportion 
as we rose higher we seemed to advance toward the light; 
the road, six or eight yards wide, on the left rested against 


IMOIS'SIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 163 

the flank of the Sierra, and on the right overtopped a 
precipice that every minute became more deep. 

At the foot of the precijflce the darkness of night still 
prevailed, while the receding plain began to put on lighter 
tints. 

On the third level Cordova was descried, fairy-like in 
white lights and blue shadows, with its Guadalquivir, 
which, reflecting the crimson tints of dawn, seemed to roll 
on a river of flames. 

Finally, on the verge of the most distant' horizon, the 
mountains that we had traversed in order to come from 
Granada to Cordova were lost in violet tints transparent 
and soft. 

So long as our eyes could take in this marvelous plain, 
they were not withdrawn from it a single instant. Our 
painters uttered cries of admiration and regret, for they 
felt that never could brush, pencil, nor palette ever ap- 
proach the sublime spectacle that the Sierra unveiled to 
their eyes. 

Finally we gained the summit of one of the first heights, 
and turning rapidly to the left, all that marvelous pano- 
rama remained behind us. 

Ten minutes afterward it was veiled by a curtain of 
trees, and we were to see it no more until our return. 

Arrived at this first plateau, we proceeded for some 
time over level ground, and then began to climb a second 
ascent. After nearly three quarters of an hour this sec- 
ond height was gained, and we descended under the shade 
of a sort of forest, through which now began to filter the 
first rays of sunshine. 

We took another half hour to cross this forest, the trees 
of which soon began to grow more sparse, and through the 
clearings we began to perceive a small plain thoroughly 
cleared up. 

In the center of this plain rose a fountain, its abundant 
waters flowing into a great stone trough; around the fount- 
ain stood waiting for us about thirty men and forty dogs. 

On perceiving us the men uncovered and the dogs 
barked. 

To the right, commanding the passage, where men and 
animals wefe grouped, arose a fortified house. This it was 
that had given its name to the fountain. 


104 MONSIEUK DE CHAUVELIK’S WILL. 

Tin's fountain was the place of rendezvous; these men 
were our hosts, the gentlemen of the Sierra-Morena. 

We put our horses into a trot, then, when we came 
within ten steps of the company, stopped and alighted. 

As I had taken the initiative in this expedition, they 
made of me the principal personage, and pushed me to the 
front. 

I met half-way a man of from forty to forty-two years, 
with a genuine Spanish face, black beard, black eyes, 
bronzed complexion, short and crisped hair, white teeth, 
and open countenance. 

This was the Torero. 

We shook hands, and exchanged a few words which 
mutual politeness made us seem to understand. After this 
all the groups mingled, and henceforth we were a compact 
mass. 

Breakfast was awaiting us. There were haunches of 
dried venison, boar hams, and wines from Malaga, Ali- 
cante, and Xeres. 

On our side, we had our provisions unloaded. We 
brought what can not be procured in the mountain — that 
is to say, pates, Grenada hams, turkeys, pullets, olives, 
goat-skin bottles full of a mild wine from Montila, that re- 
sembles our De Grave wine. 

They deposited all on the ground. 

I made a sign to Paul. 

Paul comprehended. He opened tne box of silver, 
throwing handfuls of silver knives and forks upon the 
mantles that were to serve for table-cloths. 

Then he placed the empty box in the center of the table 
companions. 

The Torero regarded his comrades with an air that 
seemed to say: Well, what do you say to that?^’ 

Our hosts responded by a nod of satisfaction. 

Each took with the end of his fingers a knife or fork, 
and they began to carve. 

Setting out from this moment, the acquaintance was per- 
fectly cemented, and our hosts became for us, and we for 
them, ordinary members of a hunting party. 

The dogs, too, from this moment seemed to have accept- 
ed us no longer as strangers, but as so many masters the 
more. This was not a pacification to be despised. These 


MOKSIEUK DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 165 

half-savage dogs, which lield the mean between a fox and 
a wolf, were terrible to look at. 

A few loaves were judiciously distributed to them, in a 
measure calculated to preserve their strength without tak- 
ing away their appetites. Hounds hunt for them. In 
order that they hunt well they must never have their hun- 
ger more than half satisfied. 

Every one was in a hurry to begin the chase. More- 
over, after a half hour, which, it must be owned, was active- 
ly employed by all, our hosts themselves gave the signal 
for departure by going to wash knives and forks at the 
fountain, and restoring them to the box. 

The fact was that the sun began to mount on high, and 
we were forewarned that we had still a league to go before 
arriving at the first beat. 

‘‘ Well?’’ asked I of Paul. 

What would you have, sir?” 

“ The silver?” 

‘‘ It is all in place.” 

“ Then go ahead.” 

And bestriding my model ass, I again took the head of 
the column, and we proceeded yet deeper into the mount- 
ain. 

After a half hour’s march they abandoned horses, asses, 
and mules to the caie of muleteers, and continued their 
course on foot. 

The Torero had taken possession of me, undertaking 
to place my son as well as myself, which was as much as 
to say that, in his opinion at least, he reserved for us the 
best places. 

Arrived at the station selected for me, I stopped and 
made ready my carbine. It was an excellent double-bar- 
reled gun, having a hunting-knife for a bayonet, and re- 
quiring to be loaded with peaked balls. 

The Torero begged me to load it in his presence, that he 
might study its mechanism. This was a breech-loader, 
and it was the first time that a weapon of the sort had ever 
come under his observation. 

He examined it with the greatest attention, and returned 
it to me; then, without regret or jealousy, set himself to 
loading his own gun with rolls of paper that he tore at the 
moment from a little manuscript pamphlet. 


166 


MOKSIELR DE CHAUVELIK^S WILL. 


After which, having recommended silence to me, he took 
my son away with him. 

^ Left alone, I examined the features of the landscape. 
We encircled a high pyramidal-shaped mountain all cover- 
ed with mastic and arbutus-trees, six or eight feet in height. 
Here and there, like enormous warts, in the midst of the 
deep green of the shrubs, were gray rocks of rounded 
form; below my feet was a small, circular dale, that skirt- 
ed the base of the mountain, and, extending all around it, 
reminded one of the brim of a hat. All this portion, a little 
less wooded than the pyramid, through openings in the 
bushes, gave us glimpses of the animals that the dogs, 
supported by the hunters, were going to beat up for us. 

The Torero had forewarned me that we should have a 
half hour to wait before the hunt began. I then cast my 
eyes about me, asking what I was going to do with this 
half hour. In this topographical investigation I perceived 
on the ground the copy-book from the cover of which the 
Torero had already borrowed two wads, which undoubtedly 
he had meant to return to his pocket, but had inadvertent- 
ly dropped. 

I picked it up and lay down under the shade of an arbu- 
tus-tree, whose red fruit, like huge strawberries, were wav- 
ing above my head, and read: 

‘‘ Histoire maravillosa de Don Bernardo de Zuniga.” 

That is to say: 

“ The Marvelous Story of Don Bernardo de Zuniga.” 

This chronicle was in manuscript, and consequently in 
all probability unknown. 

As it was short, and inasmuch as the chase, instead of 
beginning at the end of a half hour, did not begin for forty- 
five minutes, I had had time to read it from A to Z, when 
the dogs gave us their first summons. 

Here it is. 


XVII. 


STORY OF DON BERNARDO DE ZUNIGA. 


It was on January 25th, 1492. After a struggle of 
eight hundred years against the Spaniards, the Moors had 
just declared themselves conquered in the person of Al- 
Shaghyr-Abou- Abdallah, who, on the sixth of the preced- 
ing month— that is to say, the day of the kings— had deliv- 


MOXSIEUE DE CHAUVELIX'S WILL. 1G7 

ered up the city of Granada into the hands of their 
conquerors, Ferdinand and Isabella. 

The Moors had conquered Spain in two years; it had re- 
quired eight centuries for her to retake it from them. 

The report of this victory had been spread abroad. 
Throughout Spain the bells were ringing in the churches, 
as on the holy day of Easter, when our Lord arose from 
the dead, and all voices cried: “ Long live Ferdinand! 
Long live Isabella! Long live Leon! Long live Cas- 
tille!’’ 

That was not all yet. They said that in this blessed 
year, in which God had regarded Spain with a father’s eye, 
a great traveler had presented himself before the two sov- 
ereigns and had promised to give them an unknown world 
that he was certain of discovering by going always from east 
to west. 

But this generally passed for a fable, and the adventurer 
who had proffered this engagement, and whom they called 
Christopher Columbus, was regarded as a fool. 

Moreover, these tidings at that period of difficult com- 
munication had not yet spread in a very positive manner 
over the whole surface of the peninsula. In proportion as 
topographically the provinces were remote from the prov- 
inces in which the Moors had concentrated their power, 
and as the surrender had been made to Ferdinand and Isa- 
bella only nineteen days before, just as, in proportion as, 
on quitting a center of light, objects gradually retire into 
obscurity, by degrees the people began to doubt this great 
happiness which had come to all Christianity, and pressing 
eagerly around each traveler who arrived from the theater 
of war, they would ask him for the particulars of that great 
event. 

One of the provinces, not the furthest off, but separated 
most decidedly from Granada — for two great chains of 
mountains stretch between it and that city — that is, Es- 
tramadura; Estramadura, situated between New Castille 
and Portugal, and which owes its name to its remote 
position near the sources of the Duero. Estramadura, 
finally, had an interest so much the greater in getting in- 
formation, because, already delivered from the Moors as 
early as 1:240 by Ferdinand III. of Castille, it belonged 
from that time to the kingdom which Isabella had inherit- 
ed — she who had just won the name of Catholic, 


1G8 MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTK'S WILL. 

She had gathered together a great crowd, too, on that 
day when this story opens — that is to say, on January 
25th, 1492 — in the court-yard of the Castle de Bejar, 
which had just been entered by Don Bernardo de Zuniga, 
third son of Pierre Zuniga, Count de Bagnares and Mar- 
quis d’Ayamonte, master of this castle. Now, nobody 
could give fresher news of the Moors and Christians than 
Don Bernardo de Zuniga, who, as a knight of Isabella’s 
army, had been made prisoner in one of those sallies at- 
tempted by the hero of the Arabs, Mousay-Ebn-Aby’l- 
Gazan, and carried back wounded into the besieged city, 
the gates of which had only been opened to them on the 
day when the Christians had made their entree. 

Don Bernardo, at the period when he appears before us 
— that is to say, at the moment when, after an absence of 
ten years, he re-entered the paternal castle, mounted upon 
his battle-horse, and surrounded by domestics, men-at- 
arms, and vassals, was a man between thirty-five and forty 
years of age, emaciated through fatigue — and, above all, 
wounds — and who would have been pale if his face, burned 
by the southern sun, had not acquired a bronzed hue which 
seemed to make of him the compatriot and brother of the 
men whom he had just fought. This resemblance was the 
more exact that, enveloped as he was in the great white 
cloak of the Order of Alcantara, a fold of that cloak wound 
around his face to protect him against the mountain 
breezes, nothing distinguished that cloak from the Arabian 
burnous unless it might be the green cross that the knight 
of this holy order wore upon the left side of his breast. 

This retinue, which entered with him into the castle 
court, accompanied him from his appearance at the gates 
of the city. Even before he had been recognized they had 
guessed that this man with the melancholy eye, heroic 
bearing, and cloak half monastic, half war-like came from 
the seat of war. They had kept near him in order to get 
the news. Then he had revealed his name, had invited 
the good people to follow him into the castle yard, and ar- 
rived there, he had just alighted amid marks of universal 
affection and regard. 

After having thrown his horse’s bridle into the hands of 
a squire, and recommended to him that brave companion 
of his toils, which, like his master, bore more than one 
visible trace of the struggle which he had just sustained, 


MOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELII^’S WILL. 169 

Don Bernardo^ de Zuniga mounted the steps of a flight of 
stairs conducting to the principal entrance to the castle: 
then having gained the last step, he turned around, tell- 
order to satisfy the curiosity of all, how Berdinand 
the Catholic, after having conquered thirty strongholds and 
as many cities, had ended by laying siege to Granada; 
how, after a long and terrible siege, Granada had sur- 
rendered on November 25th, 1491, and how, finally, the 
king and queen had made their triumphal entry into it on 
January 6th, 1492 — the day of the Holy Epiphany — leav- 
ing as his sole possession to the successor of the kings of 
Granada and the caliphs of Cordova a small endowment 
in the Alpujarras. 

This information having given great joy to his hearers, 
Don Bernardo entered the castle, followed only by his 
most trusted followers. 

It was not without great emotion that, after the lapse of 
ten years, Don Bernardo saw again the interior of the 
home of his childhood, and realized that he had returned 
to find it empty, his father residing at Burgos, and of his 
two elder brothers, one being dead and the other in the 
army of Ferdinand. 

Don Bernardo in sadness and silence traversed all the 
apartments. It might be said that a question trembled on 
his lips that he could not utter, and which yet was the 
mainspring of all the questions that he did ask. Finally, 
stopping before the portrait of a little girl aged nine or ten 
years, he inquired, with a certain hesitation, whose por- 
trait that was. 

The man to whom this question was addressed gazed 
fixedly at Don Bernardo before replying to it. 

That portrait?’^ asked he. 

Undoubtedly that portrait,’^ repeated Don Bernardo 
in a more imperative tone. 

“ Why, monseigneur, it is that of your cousin Anne de 
Niebla. It is impossible that your lordship can have for- 
gotten that young orphan who was brought up at the cas- 
tle, and who was your eldest brother’s destined bride.” 

Ah! that is true,” said Don Bernardo. And what 
has become of her?” 

“ When your eldest brother died, in 1488, monseigneur, 
your father ordered that Anne de Niebla should enter the 
Convent of the Immaculate Conception, of the Order of 


170 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


Calatrava, and that she should take her vows there, your 
second brother being married, and your lordship belonging 
to an order that prescribes celibacy.’’ 

Don Bernardo heaved a sigh. 

That is exactly right,” said he. 

And he put no other question. 

Only as Anne de Niebla was much loved in the Castle de 
Bejar, the good man, profiting by the conversation having 
fallen upon the young heiress, tried to continue it. 

But at the first word said upon this subject, Don Ber- 
nardo imposed silence upon him in a way that made him 
understand that he had learned all that he desired to know. 

As for the rest, he was not to be mistaken as to the 
causes which had determined the return of Don Bernardo 
to the castle of his fathers — for he took care from that 
very day to let everybody know the cause. The Castle of 
Bejar was situated two or three leagues from a spring 
known as the Holy Fountain, and which undoubtedly owed 
to its nearness to the Convent of the Immaculate Concep- 
tion its privilege of performing miracles. 

This fountain was especially famous for the cure of 
wounds; and, as we have said, Don Bernardo was still thin, 
pale, and suffering from the wounds which he had received 
at the siege of Granada. 

The next day, too, Don Bernardo resolved to commence 
the treatment from which, according to his religious faith, 
he hoped a prompt cure would result. The course was 
very easy to follow. Don Bernardo should do what the 
poorest peasant would do who came to implore assistance 
from the holy Madonna, under whose patronage was the 
fountain. 

Above the spring arose a little hill formed by a single 
rock. At the top of this hill arose a cross. A person had 
to climb to the rock barefooted, then kneel before the 
cross, and devoutly repeat five Pater Nosters and five Hail 
Marys, then he had to descend, always barefooted, and 
drink a glass of water, and then retire to his own abode. 

Pilgrimages were divided into neuvames — that is to say, 
periods of nine days. At the end of the third neuvaine — 
that is to say, at the end of the twenty-seventh day — it was 
a rare thing for the patient not to be cured. 

The next day, in fact, at dawn, Don Bernardo de Zuniga 
had his horse brought out of the stable; and as, a hundred 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 171 

times in his youth, he had made the trip to the fountain, 
he set out alone to accomplish his pilgrimage to the shrine 
of health. 

Arrived at the spring, he alighted, fastened his horse to 
a tree, took olf his foot-gear, climbed the rock barefooted, 
repeated his five Pater Nosters and his five Hail Marys, de- 
scended, drank a glass of water at the spring itself, re- 
mounted his horse, cast a look, undoubtedly religious, to- 
ward the Convent of the Immaculate Conception, which, 
at the distance of half a league, appeared through the trees, 
and returned to his castle. 

Each day Don Bernardo went through the same proceed- 
ing, and it was manifest that the miraculous water acted 
beneficially upon his body, although his mood remained 
melancholy, reserved, almost savage. 

Thus passed the three neuvaines. During the last days 
of the third, his health was fully restored, and he had al- 
ready announced the day for his return to the army, when, 
on the trenty-seventh day, as he was on his knees before 
the cross, saying his Ave before the last, he saw advanc- 
ing a procession that was not void of interest for a man 
who had so often, as he bid farewell to the fountain, cast 
his eyes upon the Convent of the Immaculate Conception. 

It was a procession composed of nuns accompanying a 
litter uncovered and borne by peasants. Upon this litter 
was a nun whom they seemed to be bearing in triumph to 
the fountain. The' nuns who accompanied the litter and 
the one who was lying upon it were all scrupulously veiled. 

Instead of descending, as was his custom, to drink at the 
fountain, Don Bernardo waited, doubtless curious to see 
what was going to pass. 

His curiosity was so great that he forgot to say his last 
Hail Mary. 

The procession paused before the spring, the nun lying 
on the couch got down, took off her shoes and stockings, 
and with a tottering step at first, but one that gradually 
grew firm, began her ascent. On arriving at the foot of 
the cross, which Don Bernardo^s retirement had left free, 
the nun fell upon her knees, prayed, arose, and went below 
to rejoin her companions. 

It was an illusion, but it seemed to Don Bernardo that 
just as the nun knelt, and again when she rose from her 


172 MOJirSIEUR DE chauvelin’s will. 

knees, that her eyes rested upon him for an instant through 
her veil. 

On his side, at the approach of the holy maid, Don Ber- 
nardo had felt a strange emotion; something like a flash of 
light had passed before his eyes, and he had leaned against 
a tree for support, as if the rock, unsteady at its base, had 
trembled beneath him. 

But in proportion as the nun withdrew, Bernardo’s 
strength returned to him; then, in order to follow her 
longer with his eyes, he had leaned over the edge of the rock 
that overhung the spring. The nun had descended, had 
drawn near the fountain, and making herself visible to the 
hallowed water alone, she had put aside her veil and drunk 
at the spring itself, as was the custom. 

But then had happened a thing of which no one would 
have dreamed, and which consequently none could have 
foreseen. The limpid crystal of the fountain was changed 
into a mirror, and from the place whence he looked Don 
Bernardo de Zuniga saw the image of the nun as distinctly 
as if it had been reflected from a glass. 

In spite of her pallor, she was such a miracle of beauty 
that Don Bernardo de Zuniga uttered a cry of surprise and 
admiration loud enough to cause a thrill to pass through 
the holy patient, who, after having barely steeped her lips 
in the water, crossed her veil over her bosom, and was 
again placed on her litter, not, however, without her turn- 
ing her head a last time in the direction of the imprudent 
cavalier. 

Don Bernardo de Zuniga rapidly descended the steps in 
the rock, and addressing himself to one of the spectators 
of this scene: 

“ Do you know,” asked he of him, “ who this woman is 
that has just drunk at the fountain, and whom they are 
transporting to the Convent of the Immaculate Concep- 
tion?” 

‘‘ Yes,” replied tho man questioned; “ it is a nun who 
has just had a spell of illness that every one believed would 
be fatal, since she actually appeared to be dead for more 
than an hour; but, thanks to this blessed water, she has 
been cured — at least, in so far that to-day she goes out for 
the first time to carry out her vow of coming herself to 
drink at the fountain the water that until now has been 
drawn for her here.” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIK's WILL. Itr) 

^ “ And/’ asked Don Bernardo, with an emotion that in- 
dicated the importance that he attached to the question, 
do you know the name of this nun?” 

“Yes, to be sure I do, monseigneur; her name is Anne 
de Niebla, and she is the niece of Pierre de Zuniga, Count 
of Begnar^s, Marquis d’Ayamonte, whose son, returned 
nearly a month ago from the army, has brought the good 
news of the capture of Granada.” 

“ Anne de Niebla,” murmured Don Bernardo. “ Ah I 
I ought to have recognized her surely; but I never could 
have believed that she would grow up to be so beautiful I” 


XVIII. 

THE CHAPELET OF ANNE DE NIEBLA. 

Don Bernardo then had seen again the young girl 
whom he had left a child in the Castle of Bejar, and whose 
memory, according to all probability, had pursued him 
during the ten years of his absence. 

During these ten years of solitary dreaming, in whi(di 
the thought of Don Bernardo had followed the progress of 
Anna de Niebla in the early spring-time of life, the young- 
girl had become a woman; she had attained the age of 
twenty, while Don Bernardo was thirty-five; she had taken 
the veil as a nun, while he had assumed the habit of a 
knight of Alcantara. 

She was the bride of the Lord, he the vowed soldier of 
Christ. 

To these two young people, brought up in the same 
home, since going forth from that home all communica- 
tion by word of mouth had been interdicted, all exchange 
of regard been prohibited. 

This, most assuredly, is the reason why the sight of his 
cousin, in the strange mirror which had portrayed to him 
her features, had awakened so lively an emotion in the 
heart of Don Bernardo de Zuniga. 

He returned to his castle, but yet more pensive, gloomy, 
and taciturn than usual; and almost immediately he went 
and shut himself up in the chamber where he had seen that 
portrait of Anne de Niebla, taken when she was a child. 
Undoubtedly he sought to retrace upon the canvas the 
moving features which he had just seen trembling in the 


174 


MOKSTEUR EE CHAUVELIK’S WILL. 


fountain; to follow their juvenile development through 
the ten years that had just elapsed, to see them blossozn 
forth into life, as a flower expands in the sunshine. 

He who for fifteen years, upon battle-fields, in surprises 
of the camp, in assaults of cities, had been struggling 
against the mortal enemies of his country and his religion, 
did not even for an instant try to resist that more terrible 
enemy which had just engaged him in a hand-to-hand con- 
flict, and felled him at the first blow. 

Don Bernardo de Zuniga, knight of Alcantara, loved 
Anne de Niebla, the nun of the Immaculate Conception. 

He must fly — fly without losing an instant; return to 
real combats, to those physical wounds which kill nothing 
but the body. Don Bernardo had not the requisite cour- 
age. 

On the next day, although his neuvaine was finished all 
same one Ave Maria, he returned to the fountain, but not 
to pray. Love had taken possession of his heart and left 
no room for prayer. Seated on the top of the rock, with 
his eyes turned toward the convent, he waited for a new 
procession like that which he had already seen and which did 
not come. 

He waited thus for three days, without rest or sleep, 
keeping a steady watch upon the convent, the doors of 
which remained pitilessly closed. The fourth day, which 
was Sunday, he knew that the doors of the church would 
be open, and that any one could find admission there. 

Only, shut up in the choir, the nuns were chanting be- 
hind voluminous curtains, so that they were heard without 
being seen. 

And that day, so greatly longed for, arrived at last. 
Unfortunately Don Bernardo awaited it with an object en- 
tirely profane; the idea that this day was the one in which 
he could draw near to the Lord did not even enter his 
mind, for his only thought was to get near to Anne de 
Niebla. 

At the hour when the gates of the convent were opened 
he was there in waiting. 

At two o’clock in the morning he had gone himself to 
the stable, had saddled his horse, and gone out without ap- 
prising any one of his design. From two o’clock until 
eight he had wandered about in the neighborhood of the 
fountain, no longer with his head enveloped in his great- 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


175 


cloak in order to shield himself from the mountain breezes, 
Xut with bare head, imploring all the winds of night to 
c^me and cool the burning flame that seemed to him to be 
devouring his brain. 

^ Once inside the church, Don Bernardo went and threw 
himsftlf on his knees as near as possible to the choir of the 
church, and there he remained in waiting, with his knees 
upon the flag-stone and his forehead pressed against the 
marble. 

Divine worship began. Don Bernardo had not a thought 
for the Saviour of men whose holy sacrifice was being 
commemorated; his whole soul was open as a vase to ab- 
sorb those chants that he had promised himself, and from 
among which Anne de Niebla’s chant was to ascend to 
heaven. 

Every time that, in the midst of that sweet concert, a 
voice more harmonious, more pure and vibrating than the 
others, made itself heard, a thrill would quiver through 
Don Bernardo’s frame, and mechanically he would lift his 
clasped hands heavenward. It might have been said that 
he tried to suspend himself to that sweet harmony and 
with it scale the skies. 

Then when the sound had died away, covered up by 
other voices or exhausted through its own ecstasy, he fell 
back with a sigh, as if he had lived only for that musical 
vibration, and without it could not exist. 

The mass was finished in the midst of emotions hitherto 
unknown. The chanting ceased, the last tones of the 
organ died away, the assistants left the church, and the 
officiating clergymen returned to the convent. The tem- 
ple was no longer anything but a corpse, mute and motion- 
less; prayer, which was the soul of it, had reascended to 
heaven. 

Don Bernardo remained alone; then he could look 
around him. Above his head was hanging a picture repre- 
senting the angelic salutation; in one corner of the paint- 
ing was the donor on her knees with joined hands. 

. The knight of Alcantara uttered a cry of surprise. The 
donor, that woman represented upon her knees with 
clasped hands in a corner of the picture, was Anne de 
Niebla. 

He called the sacristan, who was putting out the wax 
lights, and questioned him. 


176 MOKSIEUK DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

That picture was the work of Anne de Niebla herself; 
she had represented herself on her knees and in prayer, ac 
cording to the custom of the times, which almost always 
claimed for the donor an humble place upon the sacred 
canvas. 

The hour for retiring had come. In obedience to the 
request of the sacristan, Don Bernardo bowed and went 
out. 

An idea had come to him, which was, to obtain posses- 
sion of that picture at any price. 

But all the proposals that he made or caused to be made 
to the superior of the convent were refused, the steady 
reply being that what had been given was not to be sold. 

Don Bernardo vowed that he would become the owner 
of that picture. He put together all the money that he 
could get, which amounted to nearly twenty thousand reals 
— much more than the actual value of the ^licture — and he 
resolved, the first Sunday that came, to penetrate into the 
church with all the rest of the people, as he had already 
done; to keep himself concealed in some corner, and at 
night detach it from its place and roll up the canvas, leav- 
ing at the same time the twenty thousand reals upon the 
altar from which he had removed the picture. 

As to getting out of the church, he had remarked that 
the windows were twelve feet from the floor at most, and 
that they opened upon the church-yard. He would pile up 
chairs, one upon the other, and easily escape from the 
cliurch by a window. 

Then he would regain the castle with his treasure, would 
have it framed magnificently, would place it opposite the 
portrait of Anne de Mebla, and would pass his life in that 
room which would hold all he held dear in life. 

The days and nights elapsed while he was wrapped up 
in expectancy of the next Sunday, which came at last. 

Don Bernardo de Zuniga was one of the first to enter 
the church, as he had been the Sunday before. He had 
upon his person the twenty thousand reals in gold. 

But what struck him the first thing was the funereal as- 
pect that the church had assumed. Across the railing of 
the choir were seen to shine the tip ends of wax candles 
lighting the top of a catafalque. 

Don Bernardo inquired as to the meaning of this. 


MONSIEUR BE CHAUVELIN'S WILL. 177 

The same morning a nun had died, and the mass at 
which he was going to be present was a mortuary one. 

But, as we have said, Don Bernardo did not come for 
mass; he came to prepare for the accomplishment of his 
project. 

Th^ angelic picture was in its place, above the altar, in 
the chapel of the Virgin. 

The lowest window was ten or twelve feet from the 
ground, and, thanks to the benches and chairs superadded, 
nothing was easier than to get out. 

These thoughts preoccupied Don Bernardo during the 
whole time of divine service. His conscience told him, to 
be sure, that he was going to commit a bad action; but in 
consideration of his whole life having been spent in fight- 
ing infidels, and in consideration of the enormous sum that 
he was to leave instead of the picture, he hoped that the 
Lord would pardon him. 

Then, from time to time, he would listen to those 
funereal chants, and from among all those fresh, pure, and 
sonorous voices, he would vainly seek to catch the tones of 
that voice whose touching sweetness eight days before had 
stirred every fiber of his being, and had caused them to 
vibrate with emotion, as a celestial harp under the fingers 
of a seraphim. 

That harmonious string was absent, and it might have 
been said that a fret was lacking in the religious key-board. 

Mass was over. Each one left in his turn. As he passed 
by a confessional, Don Bernardo de Zuniga opened it, en- 
tered, and closed it behind him. 

Nobody saw him. 

The doors of the church creaked upon their hinges. 
Bernardo heard the bolts grinding. The steps of the sac- 
ristan grazed the confessional in which he was hidden, and 
died away. Silence held sway. 

Only now and then, in the choir which was always 
closed, the muffled sound of a step was heard on the flag- 
stones, and then the murmur of a prayer made in a low 
voice. 

This was some nun who had come to recite the Virgin’s 
litanies over the body of her deceased companion. 

Night came, and darkness spread over the church; the 
choir alone was still lighted, transformed, as it were, into 
a chapel aflame. 


178 


MONSIEUK DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 


Then the moon rose, and one of its rays, passing athwart 
a window, threw its dim light into the church. 

All sounds of life gradually died away both without and 
within. About eleven o’clock the last prayers around the 
dead ceased, and everything made way for that religious 
silence peculiar to churches, cloisters, and cemeteries. 

The monotonous and regular screech of an owl, perched, 
in all probability, upon some tree near to the church, alone 
continued to be heard with its sad periodicity. 

Don Bernardo thought that the moment had come for 
accomplishing his design. He pushed the door of the con- 
fessional where he was concealed, and prepared to set foot 
upon the flag-stones outside. 

At the moment when he left his retreat the clock began 
to strike the hour of midnight. 

He waited, motionless, until the twelve strokes had slow- 
ly vibrated, and were lost little by little in insensible shud- 
derings, in order to quit the confessional altogether, and 
proceed to the choir. He wanted to make sure that no- 
body was any longer watching by the dead, and that no one 
would thwart him in the accomplishment of his design. 

But he had no sooner taken one step toward the choir 
than its grated door opened and a nun appeared. 

Don Bernardo uttered a cry. That nun was Anne de 
Hiebla. 

Her raised veil left her face uncovered. A crown of 
white roses fastened her veil to her head. She held in her 
hand an ivory chaplet, that appeared yellow compared with 
the hand that held it. < 

Anne!” exclaimed the young man. 

Don Bernardo!” murmured the nun. 

Don Bernardo rushed forward. 

You called my name?” cried Don Bernardo. So you 
recognized me?” 

“ Yes,” replied the nun. 

“ At the Holy Fountain?’ 

At the Holy Fountain.” 

And Don Bernardo encircled the nun in his arms. 

Anne made no effort to free herself from this loving em- 
brace. 

Pray pardon me,” asked Bernardo, for I am mad 
with joy and happiness. What are you coming this way 
for?” 


MOKSIEUR BE CHAITVELIN’S WILL 


179 


I knew that you were here.’’ 

'V And you were looking for me?” 

^Yes.” 

You know, then, that I love you?” 

“Ido.” 

“ And you, do you love me?” 

The lips of the nun remained closed. 

“ Oh, Niebla! Niebla! one word, one single word. In 
the name of our youth, in the name of my love, in the 
name of Christ, do you love me?” 

“ I have made vows,” murmured the nun. 

“ Oh! what matter your vows?” exclaimed Don Ber- 
nardo. “ Have I not made them also, and broken them 
as well?” 

“ I am dead to the world,” said the fiancee. 

“ Were you dead to life, Niebla, I should resuscitate 
you.”^ 

“ You will not make me live again,” said Anne, shak- 
ing her head. “ And as for me, Bernardo, I’ll be the 
death of you.” 

“We had better sleep in the same tomb than die apart.” 

“ Then what is your resolve, Bernardo?” 

“ To carry you off, to bear you away with me to the end 
of the world, if need be.” 

“ When will that be?” 

“ This instant.” 

“ The doors are shut.” 

“You are right. Are you free to-morrow?” 

“lam always free.” 

“ To-morrow night wait for me here at the same hour. 
I shall have a key to the church.” 

“ I shall expect you; but will you come?” 

“Ah! I swear to you upon my life. But you, what 
pledge do you give that you will keep your word?” 

“ Hold!” said she; “ here is my chaplet.” 

And she tied her ivory chaplet around his neck. 

At the same time Don Bernardo embraced Anne de 
Ni6bla, and with his two hands strained her to his heart. 
Their lips met and exchanged a kiss. 

But instead of being ardent, like a first kiss of love, the 
contact with the lips of the nun was icy, and the cold 
which ran into the veins of Don Bernardo transfixed his 
heart. 


180 MONSIEUR BE THAUVELIN’S MMLL. 

“ It is well,” said Anne; and now no human force 
shall be able to separate us any more. AVe’ll meet again, 
Zuniga.” 

Till we meet again, dear Anne. On to-morrow 
night?” 

‘‘ On to-morrow night.” 

The nun released herself from her lover’s arms, moving 
slowly from him, but keejiing her head turned in his direc- 
tion all the while until she entered the choir again and 
closed the door behind her. 

Don Bernardo Zuniga allowed her to retire, but stood 
motionless in his place, with his arms stretched out toward 
her, and thought of withdrawing himself only after he had 
seen her disappear. 

He put four benches side by side, placed four other 
benches across them, set a chair on top of these benches, 
and went out, as he had arranged before-hand, through the 
window. The grass was high and tufted, as is usually the 
case in cemeteries. He could jump, then, from the height 
of twelve feet without doing himself any harm. 

He had no need to carry otf the portrait of Anne de 
Niebla, since the next day Anne de Niebla herself was 
going to be his own. 


XIX. 

HE LIVING DEAD. 

Day was beginning to dawn when Don Bernardo de 
Zuniga returned to get his horse from the inn where he 
had left it. 

An inconceivable sense of discomfort had taken posses- 
sion of him, and although wrapped up in his large cloak, 
he felt himself gradually chilled to the bone. 

He asked the stable-boy to direct him to the locksmith 
who worked for the convent, and the boy instantly com- 
plied with his request. 

He lived at the other end of the village. 

Don Bernardo, in order to warm himself up, made his 
horse go on a full trot, and in a short time he heard the 
blows of the hammer resounding upon the anvil, and 
through the open windows and door he saw sparks from 
the red iron fly into the middle of the street. 


MOiq'SIEUR DE CHAUVELII^’S WILL. 181 

Arrived at the door of the smithy, he got off his horse; 
hut more and more penetrated by the cold, he was aston- 
ished at the automatic stiffness of his movements. 

The locksmith, for his part, had remained with hammer 
uplifted, looking at that noble lord wrapped in his knight- 
ly mantle of the order of Alcantara, who was alighting at 
his door and entering his shop like any ordinary customer. 

On discovering that it was indeed himself with whom he 
had to do, the locksmith laid his hammer upon the anvil, 
took off his cap, and asked, politely: 

“What can I do for you, my lord?’^ 

“ You are locksmith to the Convent of the Immaculate 
Conception, are you not?’’ asked the knight. 

“ Yes, sir, I am,” replied the locksmith. 

“ Have you the convent keys?” 

“No, sir; only their models — so that if one of its keys 
be lost I might replace it.” 

“ Very well. I want the church key.” 

“ The church key?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Excuse me, sir; but it is my duty to ask what you in- 
tend to do with it.” 

“ I want to mark my dogs to preserve them from mad- 
ness.” 

“ That is a seigniorial right. Are you master of the 
land on which the church is built?” 

“ lam Don Bernardo de Zuniga, son of Pierre de Zuniga, 
Count de Bagnares, Marquis d’Ayamonte. I command a 
hundred men-at-arms, and am knight of Alcantara, as you 
can see by my mantle.” 

“ That can not be,” exclaimed the locksmith, with a 
wisible expression of alarm. 

“ And why can not it be?” 

“ Because you are living as lively as can be, although 
you do seem to be cold, and Don Bernardo de Zuniga died 
last night about one o’clock in the morning.” 

“ And who told you that fine news?” asked the knight. 

“ A squire bearing a cloak with the Bejar arms upon 
it, who passed just an hour ago on his way to order a 
funeral service to be held at the Convent of the Immacu- 
late Conception.” 

Don Bernardo burst into a peal of laughter. 

“ Hold!” said he. “ Meanwhile, here are ten pieces of 


183 


MONSIEUR t>E CHAUVELTN’S MMLL. 


gold for your key. I’ll come again for it this afternoon, 
and bring you as many more for it.” 

The locksmith bowed in token of assent. Twenty pieces 
of gold! Why, that was more than he had earned in a whole 
year, and well worth the risk of receiving a reprimand. 

Besides, why should he be reprimanded? It was the 
custom to mark hunting-dogs with church keys to keep 
them from going mad. A gentleman who paid out his 
money so liberally, whatever else might be said of him, 
could not be a thief. 

Don Bernardo once more mounted his horse. He had 
tried to warm himself at the forge, but had not succeeded. 
He hoped better things from the sun, that began to shine 
as brilliantly as it is apt to do in Spain in the month of 
March. 

He gained the fields and set into running; but colder 
and colder he grew, cold chills shaking his whole frame 
and freezing his blood. 

This was not all. It seemed as though he were chained 
to the convent, and he described a circle of which the 
church steeple formed the center. 

In crossing a wood toward eleven o’clock he saw a work- 
man who was planing some oak planks. This was a task 
that he had often seen done by workmen, and yet somehow 
he felt constrained to question that man in spite of him- 
self. 

“ What are you doing there?” asked he of him. 

‘‘You see for yourself, noble sir,” replied he. 

“No; tell me, since I ask the question.” 

“ Well, I am making a bier. 

“Out of oak? It is for some great lord that you are 
working, then?” 

“It is for the Chevalier Don Bernardo de Zuniga, son 
of Monseigneur Pierre de Zuniga, Count de Bagnares, 
Marquis d’Ayamonte.” 

“ The chevalier is dead, then, is he?” 

“ He died last night, about one o’clock in the morn- 
ing,” replied the workman. 

“ That is a fool,” muttered the chevalier, shrugging 
his shoulders; and he went on his way. 

Upon his return to the village where he had ordered the 
key, he met, toward one o’clock, a monk who was riding a 
mule, followed by a sacristan on foot. 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 183 

The sacristan carried a crucifix and a vessel of holy 
water. 

Don Bernardo had already drawn up his horse in order 
to let the holy man pass, when suddenly, bethinking him- 
self, he made a sign with his hand that he would like to 
speak with him. 

The monk stopped. 

‘‘ Whence come you, father?’’ asked the knight. 

‘‘ From the Chateau de Bejar, noble sir.” 

‘‘ From the Chateau de Bejar?” asked Don Bernardo, 
astonished. 

“Yes.” 

“ And, pray, what had you to do at the Chdteau de 
Bejar?” 

“ I have been to hear the last confession and administer 
the holy sacrament to Don Bernardo de Zuniga, who, to- 
ward midnight, feeling death to be at hand, had me called 
that he might receive absolution for his sins; but although 
I had gone in all haste, still I arrived too late.” 

“Howl Too late!” 

“ Yes; when I arrived I found Don Bernardo already 
dead.” 

^ “ Already dead?” repeated the knight. 

“ Yes; and more than that, dead without confession. 
May God have pity on his soul!” 

“ What o’clock was it when he died?” 

“ About one o’clock at night,” answered the monk. 

“It is a wager,” said the knight, with ill-humor, 
“ these people have sworn to drive me mad.” 

And he spurred his horse into a gallop. 

Ten minutes afterward he was at the door of the smithy. 

“ Oh! oh!” said the locksmith, “ what is the matter 
with your lordship? You look so pale.” 

“ I am cold,” said Don Bernardo. 

“ Here is your key.” 

“ Here is your gold.” 

And he threw twelve other pieces into his hands. 

“ Holy fathers!” said the smith, “ where do you keep 
your money?” 

“ Why do you ask that?” 

“ Your gold is as cold as ice. While I think of it — >” 

“ What is that you say?” 


184 l^IOKSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN’S WILL. 

‘‘ Do not forget to make the sign of the cross three times 
before using the key.’’ 

And why, pray?” 

Because*^ when one forges a church key, the devil 
never fails to come and blow the fire.” 

All right. And, for your part, do not forget to pray 
for the soul of Don Bernardo de Zuniga>” said the knight, 
trying to smile. 

I’ll surely remember,” said the locksmith; ‘‘but am 
much afraid that my prayers will come too late, seeing that 
he is already dead.” 

Although Don Bernardo had received these different 
shocks with a calm air, and received these surprising an- 
swers with a smile, what he had seen and heard since morn- 
ing had not failed to make a lively impression upon him, 
brave as he was. Above all, that coldness, that mortal 
coldness which kept increasing, paralyzing the very beat- 
ing of his heart, and chilling the very marrow of his bones. 
He pressed with his feet upon the stirrups, and no longer 
felt the support that they lent him. He squeezed one hand 
with the other, but felt no conscious pressure. 

Evening came with its breezes, that seemed to penetrate 
both his cloak and other garments as if neither had any 
more consistency than a cobweb. 

Night having come, he entered the cemetery and fast- 
ened his horse to the foot of a plane-tree. He had not 
thought of eating all day long, either for himself or horse. 

He lay down in the long grass to escape as much as pos- 
sible from the cutting blast that was annihilating him. 
But hardly had he touched the ground before he felt much 
worse. That ground, full of atoms of death, seemed like 
a marble slab. 

Gradually, no matter what effort he made to resist the 
cold, he fell into a sort of swoon, whence he was aroused 
by the noise two men made in digging a grave. 

He made a mighty effort and lifted himself up on his 
elbow. 

The two grave-diggers, who saw a man apparently issue 
from a grave, uttered a shriek. 

“ Oh! Well, to be sure!” said he to the grave-diggers, 
“ I thank you for having waked me. It was high time.” 

“ You may well thank us, sir, for when one goes tg sleep 
here one hardly ever wakes up again.” 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 185 

^ And what are you doing in this cemetery at such an 

You can see for yourself.’’ 

Are you digging a grave?” 

Certainly we are.” 

‘‘ And for whom?” 

“ For Don Bernardo de Zuniga.” 

For Don Bernardo de Zuniga?” 

“ Yes. It seems that this worthy lord, in the will that 
he made fifteen days or three weeks ago, desired to be 
buried in the cemetery of the Convent of the Immaculate 
Conception, so that they only came to us this evening to 
set us at the task. Now the question is to make up for 
lost time.” 

“ And when did he die?” 

‘‘ Last night, at one o’clock in the morning. There! 
Now the grave is dug, and Don Bernardo may come as 
soon as he pleases. Farewell, sir. ” 

“ Wait,” said the knight. “ All labor deserves to he 
rewarded. Hold! here is something for you and your com- 
rade.” 

And he threw on the ground seven or eight pieces of gold 
that the grave-diggers made haste to pick up. 

‘‘Holy Virgin!” said one of the grave-diggers, “I do 
hope that the wine which we are going to quaff to your 
good health will not be as cold as your money, for, if so, it 
were enough to freeze the soul in the body.” 

And they left the grave-yard. 

Half past eleven had just struck. Don Bernardo walked 
for a half hour longer, having the greatest trouble in the 
world to keep himself up, so stagnant seemed the blood in 
his veins. At last midnight sounded. 

At the first stroke of the bell Don Bernardo introduced 
the key into the lock and opened the door. 

The astonishment of the knight was great. The church 
was lighted up, the choir was open, the pillars and arches 
were hung with black, while hundreds of wax lights burned 
in the glowing chapel. 

In the middle of the chapel a platform was raised, and 
on the platform was lying a nun dressed in white, wearing 
upon her head a great white veil held in place by a crown 
of white roses. 

A singular presentiment weighed down the heart of the 


18 () MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELTN'S WILL. 

knight. He drew near the platform, leaned over the 
corpse, raised the veil, and uttered a cry. 

It was the corpse of Anna de Niebla. 

He turned and looked around him, seeking whom he 
could question, and perceived the sacristan. 

What corpse is that?’’ asked he. 

“ That of Anna de Ni^bla,” replied the good man. 

“ How long has she been dead?” 

“ Since Sunday morning.” 

Don Bernardo felt the cold continually increasing that 
was freezing his vitals, although he would have believed 
that impossible. 

He passed his hand over his brow. 

“Was she dead, then, at twelve o’clock last night?” 

“ Certainly she was.” 

“ Where was she at twelve o’clock last night?” 

“ Where she is to-night at the same hour; only the 
church was not hung, the wax tapers of the cenotaph were 
lighted, and the choir railing was closed.” 

“ Then,” continued the knight, “ any one who had seen 
Anne de Niebla come toward him here at that hour would 
have seen a phantom? Any one who had spoken to her, 
then, would have spoken to a ghost?” 

“ God preserve a Christian from such a misfortune; but 
he would have spoken to a phantom and seen a ghost.” 

Don Bernardo tottered. He understood it all now. He 
had given his troth to a phantom, he had received the kiss 
of a specter. 

This was why that kiss had been so cold; this was why a 
river of ice was flowing through his whole body. 

At the same moment there recurred to his mind that 
announcement of his own death which had been given by 
the locksmith, the joiner, the priest, and the grave-digger. 

They had told him that he died at one o’clock. 

It was at one o’clock that he had received the kiss of 
Anne de Niebla. 

Was he dead or alive? 

Had separation of soul and body already taken place? 

Was this his soul that was wandering about in the en- 
virons of the Convent of the Immaculate Conception, while 
his dead body was lying in the Castle of B6jar? 

He threw back the veil that he had lifted from the face 


MONSIEUR DE CHAUVELIN^S WILL. 


187 


of the dead, and rushed out of the church. Vertigo had 
seized him. 

The clock struck one. 

With^ bowed head and oppressed spirit 'Don Bernardo 
rushed into the cemetery, stumbled over the open grave, 
picked himself up, unloosed his horse, leaped into the sad- 
dle, and dashed off in the direction of the Castle of Be jar. 

There alone could be solved the terrible enigma of 
whether he were alive or dead. 

But a strange thing I His sensations are almost extinct. 
The horse who bears him he can hardly feel between his 
legs; the only impression of which he is sensible is that 
ever-increasing cold which is gradually benumbing his 
whole being. 

He spurs on his horse, which likewise appears to be a 
spectral horse. It seems to him that his mane lengthens, 
that his feet do not touch the ground any more, and that 
his gallop has ceased to awaken any sound. 

Suddenly on his right and left two black dogs rise up, 
without noise or barking; their eyes are of flame and their 
throats the color of blood. 

They run alongside of the horse with flaming eyes and 
gaping jaws; no more than the horse do they touch the 
ground; horse and dogs skim the surface of the ground; 
they do not run, they fly. 

All the objects that skirt the road disappear from the 
eyes of the knight as though borne upon the wings of a 
hurricane. Finally, in the distance, he descries the tur- 
rets, walls, and doors of the Castle of Bejar. 

There all his doubts were to be cleared up. He urges 
forward his horse, too, accompanied by the dogs and pur- 
sued by the bell. 

For his part, the castle seemed to come to meet him. 
The gate was open; the knight reached forward; he cleared 
the threshold, and was in the yard. 

Nobody paid any heed to him, and yet the yard was full 
of 



He spoke, and nobody answered him; he questioned, but 
nobody saw him; he touched, but nobody felt his touch. 

At that moment a herald appeared upon the front steps. 
Hear! hear! hear!’^ said he. “ The body of Don 
Bernardo de Zuniga is going to be conveyed, according to 
the wish expressed in his will, to the cemetery of the Con- 


188 MONSIEUK DE CHATVELIN'S WILL. 

vent of the Immaculate Conception. Let those who have 
the right to sprinkle him with holy water follow me.^’ 

And he entered the castle. 

The knight wanted to pursue his journey to the end, 
and let himself glide down from his steed, but he no longer 
felt the ground beneath his feet, and fell on his knees, try- 
ing to clutch with his hand his horse’s stirrups. 

At that moment the two black dogs seized him by the 
throat and strangled him. 

He wanted to utter a cry, but had not the strength. 
Hardly could he breathe forth a sigh. 

Those present saw two dogs that seemed to fight some- 
thing between them, while the horse vanished like a shadow. 

They wanted to strike at the dogs, but they only parted 
when they had accomplished the invisible task that they 
had set themselves.. 

Then, side by side, they dashed out of the yard and dis- 
appeared. 

On the spot where they had stayed ten minutes, shapeless 
cUlris were found, and among this dehris the chaplet of 
Anne de Niebla. 

At that moment the body of Don Bernardo de Zuniga 
appeared at the front door, borne by pages and the squires 
of the castle. 

Next day it was buried with great pomp in the cemetery 
of the Immaculate Conception, side by side with his cousin, 
Anna de Niebla. God have mercy upon their souls! 

I was just finishing the perusal of this story when my 
guide reappeared. 

‘‘ What manuscript is this?” asked I of him. 

“ This manuscript?” 

And he looked at it. 

‘‘ My faith! I know nothing about it,” said he. 

‘‘ You ought to know, however, for it fell from your 
pocket as you moved away.” 

Eeally?” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“ In that case, it must have formed a part of the bag- 
gage of a scholar who crossed the Sierra three weeks ago.” 

“ And he was going?” 

“ From Malaga to Seville, I believe.” 

“ You do not know his name?” 


MOI^SIEUR DE CHAUYELIK’S WILL. 


189 


My faitli! No. Do you want anything of him?” 

I should like to ask his permission to translate this 
legend.” 

“ I give it you.” 

How! You give it to me?” 

<< Yes.” 

‘‘ By what title?” 

The Torero began to laugh. 

By title of universal legatee,” said he. 

“ He is dead, then?” 

And buried.” 

Then, seeing that I looked at him as if I had not per- 
fectly comprehended : 

The third cross to the right as you return to Cor- 
dova,” said he. 

Then suddenly hiding himself behind a bush: 

“ Look out! Look out! The wild boar!” cried he. 
The hunt has begun!” 


THE END. 


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books for two dollars. Address 

QEORaE MUNRO’S SONS, Publishers, 

(P. O. Uos 8781.) 17 to 27 Vandawater Street^ New York, 


LEAg’l2 








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THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR ^ 

Model Letter-Writer and Lovers’ Oracle. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

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This book is a complete gruide for botli ladies and {rentlemen in ele- 
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The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

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This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the 
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The New York Fashion Bazar Book of Etiquette. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

PRICE 10 CENTS. 

This book is a guide to good manners and the ways of fashionable 
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The foregoing works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will he sent 
to any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS, 

Munro's Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 2781.) 17 to 27 Vande water Street, New York. 








GOOD FORM: 

A BOOK OF EVEKY DAY ETIQUETTE. 

By MRS. ARMSTRONG. 

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No one aspiring to the manners of a lady or prentlenian can afford 
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MUNRO’S STAR RECITATIONS. 

Compiled and Edited by MRS. MARY E. BRYAN. 
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The whole carefully revised, innocently amusing, instructive and 
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ART OF HOUSEKEEPING. 

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The foregoing w'orks are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent 
to any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 2781.) 17' to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


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